


combat fatigue

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 4/73 Sphinx Battery, 5 Regiment Royal Artillery, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Army, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Greg Lestrade, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, BAMF everyone, Betrayal, Bisexual John Watson, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Captain John Watson, Character Development, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Everyone Is Gay, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Forbidden Love, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Graphic injuries, Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Horndog John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, Loving John Watson, M/M, Major Character Injury, Many many swears, Military AU, Multiple Pairings, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Royal Artillery, Secret Relationship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Smut, Soldier AU, Sort Of, They're all soldiers, Violence, War Fic, Whump, Young Love, Younger John, Younger Sherlock, hard angst, loving smut, so much mutual pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-01-29 00:49:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 93,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21401428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: AN: This work is currently being edited/re-written (somewhat). I advise waiting to read it until this message disappears, as things might not make sense until it is completed. Thanks!When Sherlock is deployed to Afghanistan with his brother and the 4/73 Bravo Sierra Bravo patrol unit, he is thrown into a terrifying new world. Developing an unexpected connection with Captain John Watson complicates things, and the two begin to wonder if they can keep each other safe when betrayal lurks in unexpected faces.
Relationships: James Sholto/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sebastian Moran & Jim Moriarty, Sebastian Moran/James Moriarty, Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 160
Kudos: 121





	1. background and cover

**Author's Note:**

> This was based on a little scene I wrote back in 2011 of the Sherlock crew as soldiers in Afghanistan. I've slowly been developing it into an actual plot, and, after hours of research on Royal Artillery Special Forces, found the pieces to put this fic together. I will be working on it as much as I can. 
> 
> Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Lestrade, Moriarty, and Moran (Sebastian - repped by Michael Fassbender, as per my headcanon from old fandom days) are members of the 4/73 "Sphinx" Battery in the 5th Regiment Royal Artillery, serving in Afghanistan.

_Characters (ranked from highest to lowest designation)_

**Staff-Sergeant Gregory Lestrade (patrol commander) **

**Sergeant Mycroft Holmes (second-in-command) **

**Captain John Watson (medical and close combat weapons specialist) **

**Bombardier Sebastian Moran (long-range weapons specialist)**

**Lance Bombardier Sherlock Holmes (driver and intelligence specialist) **

**Lance Bombardier Jim Moriarty (surveillance specialist) **

The 4/73 Battery (aka the "Sphinx" Battery) is a special forces branch of the 5th Regiment Royal Artillery (yes, it's a real unit). The Sherlock crew is one of the two 6-man patrols. Generally, the 4/73's role is to deploy ahead of friendly forces, working behind enemy lines to conduct reconnaissance of enemy movements. Patrols operate in teams of 6, and often operate alone and out of range of the rest of the Battery for up to 7 days. While in Afghanistan in 2007, the Sphinx Battery mainly filled the role of vehicle-based reconnaissance and patrolling.

Part of the 5th Regiment Royal Artillery, their sister unit is 1st Special Observation Post Squadron, the Honourable Artillery Company.

At the time, only men were able to enlist within the battery (was opened to women in 2018, hence why there are no female characters in this aspect of the fic).

I originally wanted Mycroft to be the Staff Sergeant, but most Staff Sergeants have about 12 years of serving time, so Lestrade seemed a more likely candidate, given his age.

Sherlock and Jim (being consulting detective/criminal in the show) have the same rank, which is comparable to corporal (changed to bombardier in artillery forces).

Since 2008, "gunners", as artillery privates are called, wear khaki berets, but prior to that (when they were in Afghanistan), they wore dark blue (which is when this takes place).

Aside from the time points of when the 4/73 were in Afghanistan, I will not be basing the storyline on the actual operations that occurred there (such as Operation Herrick 7, where two members lost their lives to a mine strike incident). During that mission, the team did foil a car-bomb plot, which could make it into the fic in some form.

This is their insignia/badge, and the 4/73 motto is "Lateo", which is Latin for "_I am in hiding" _or "_I am hidden/concealed"._


	2. pick up and fuck off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, new to the 4/73 Battery, participates in his first reconnaissance patrol. Boring as it seems, things quickly become more interesting than he would have liked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> British Army slang used in this chapter
> 
> **O silly hundred hours:** Zero dark thirty unspecified time in the early hours of the morning before dawn  
**On your uppers:** totally knackered, exhausted  
**Chin-strapped:** very tired or lack of sleep  
**Sarnt:** mispronunciation of Sergeant  
**2IC:** Second-in-command  
**Lance Jack:** Lance Corporal/Bombardier  
**Recce:** reconnaissance   
**Crow:** Combat Recruit of War (a derogatory term for a low-ranking/inexperienced soldier)
> 
> There's a lot of swearing in this, oops (sorry not sorry).

“Sherlock.” A light touch brushed his shoulder, pulling him toward waking. “Hey, wake up." The low voice filtered through deep sleep, dragging him to the surface from under a strange dream of purple clouds and tire tracks. Opening his eyes, he squinted into the dark, making out a shape perched on the edge of his cot. John Watson's blue eyes and tanned face swam into focus as he blinked.

“Captain,” Sherlock muttered a vague greeting and sat up, rubbing a hand across his face. “What time is it?”

A snort emerged from the shape beside him. “O silly hundred hours, what else?”

Sherlock groaned, collapsing back into the hard cot with a thump. “God, why? I’m bloody chin-strapped," he sighed, grinding his cheek against the rough fabric of the standard-issue pillow. A light flicked on, and he winced. John studied his face in the illumination and raised an eyebrow, one side of his mouth tilting up in a small smile.

“Yeah, you look right on your uppers.” Already dressed in his combat gear, though missing the helmet and the SA80 assault rifle usually slung over his back, Captain Watson sat with ease in the heavy uniform. With his short sandy hair neatly combed into place, he rubbed a hand over the beard covering the lower half of his face. Catching Sherlock’s eye, John's smile widened to a grin. “Come on. Sarnt is waiting for us.”

Sherlock snorted at the intentional mispronunciation of ‘sarge,' and John joined in, his own laughter soft before he paused, cocking a playful eyebrow. “And Mister 2IC is just as stroppy as usual," he added, standing and patting Sherlock’s leg with a steady hand. “Come on, lance jack. Time to pick up and fuck off.” He winked and strode from the tent, navigating around cots and sleeping soldiers, leaving Sherlock to sigh and grumble as he stood, digging around for his clothes and gear. In the next bed over, Jim was doing the same as he muttered something under his breath. Across the way, Sebastian Moran looked amused, eyeing them with half-lidded eyes. He was already dressed in his gear, idly stroking a finger along the stock of the Browning L9A1 handgun balanced on his thigh. He touched it with an unsettling reverence, his gaze a faint glimmer outside the sparse illumination.

“Told you to set an alarm, Moriarty," he said in his slow drawl, looking smug at the black stare Jim shot his way. Sebastian just shrugged in response, seemingly unperturbed by the blatant animosity. “You’ll learn.” He smirked before adding, “I guess that’s what makes me a bombardier and you two just lancers.”

“If that’s all it takes, then I’m not sure I care enough to pursue a promotion, Moran,” Sherlock snapped at him, shoving his feet into heavy boots with more force than was necessary. “Now shut up or sod off.”

"Have it your way, crow." Moran stood in a smooth, fluid movement, stowing the handgun in its place on his chest. Pausing to look at Sherlock for a moment, his gaze sharp and searching, he finally shrugged and disappeared outside.

“What a complete arse.” Sherlock buckled his combat gear into place with tense fingers, unspent aggression making him antsy. Without fail, Sebastian Moran always managed to get under his skin, and Sherlock hated him for it. He hated himself more for falling for it every time. Behind him, Moriarty remained silent with his eyes focused downward as he laced up his boots.

The dry, oppressively hot air hit Sherlock’s face the second he stepped out of the tent. It felt like walking into a solid object, the atmosphere thick enough to taste, heavy and arid on his tongue. Pulling his combat helmet over his short, curly hair, he gritted his teeth, pushing back a mighty yawn. John and two other men approached, Moran trailing behind them with a small, apathetic smile on his lips.

“Holmes, Moriarty." Helmet tucked beneath one arm, the speaker ran a hand through his short salt-and-pepper hair, nodding stiffly to them both. Beside him, a tall man with reddish hair and an annoyed twist to his lips narrowed his eyes at their approach.

“Good to finally see you both up and uniformed,” he snapped, making the grey-haired man sighed.

“Mycroft…” he began, his tone indicating it was too early for his irritation. The redhead rolled his eyes.

“Gregory, they should have been up and ready fifteen minutes ago,” he pressed, eyeing Sherlock and Moriarty with a sharp gaze. Gregor waved a dismissive hand, cutting his second-in-command off.

“Well, they’re up now, and we're still on schedule, so it's fine. No use beating a dead horse." He shot Mycroft a hard look before relenting and jerking his chin and Sherlock and Jim. "But, next time, set your damn alarms, yeah?" Receiving a terse nod from Sherlock and a soft _yes, sir_ from Moriarty, he sighed and nodded as well. Hands rubbing together, he spoke briskly. "Alright, now that's settled, go grab a quick breakfast, then we'll load up and head out.” Staff-Sergeant and Sergeant turned and made their way for the mess hall, Sebastian and Jim plodding along behind them.

The strap of his rifle twisted against his back, and Sherlock readjusted the firearm as he sidled up to John. He fell into step beside him as they followed. “What’s happening?” Sherlock asked, glancing sideways at John as he drifted a little closer, teeth pressing into his bottom lip at his boldness. "Lestrade seems keyed up." John tilted his face toward him with a faint smile.

“Recce.” He let his hand brush against Sherlock’s, and Sherlock felt colour rise immediately into his cheeks at the contact. He cleared his throat, eyes flickering quickly to the men ahead of them. Lost in their discussions—or, in the case of Moran, staring up at the stars—they seemed oblivious to Sherlock and John walking behind them. Reassured, Sherlock relaxed and curled his little finger shyly around John’s. The corner of John's mouth closest to him twitched upward. 

“Where?” Sherlock kept his voice casual in an attempt to offset the way his heart pounded at the warmth of John’s skin against his. He couldn't quite help the little shiver that passed through him.

“Oh, butt-fuck nowhere, I’m sure,” John drawled, grinning sideways at him as he stroked a finger along the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s palm. Sherlock felt hos already pinkened cheeks darken further, and he muffled a cough. Clearly, he wasn’t fooling anyone, John seeing through him easily with a raised eyebrow and a little smirk. Sherlock stared at him, his lips parting around a breathy little exhale, and John stared back. As if drawn forward, Sherlock felt himself tilt towards John before Mycroft turned to glare back at them, and he quickly jerked his hand away, attempting to disguise the movement by rubbing at his leg. Mycroft's eyes narrowed, but he looked away, and Sherlock let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Beside him, John sighed.

“Close one," he muttered.

Sherlock nodded, his fingers plucking at the edge of his flak jacket. He was new to the patrol, deploying in only three months before with Jim Moriarty. The deployment hadn't been his decision. Mycroft arranged the placement without his input, and the situation was out of his hands, free will taken away by his brother's meddling. Glaring at Mycroft's stiff shoulders ahead of him, Sherlock narrowed his eyes. If not for Mycroft, he'd still be back in North Yorkshire, England, living in the barracks without his brother's presence hanging heavy over him. Sometimes, it felt like a guillotine blade, waiting to drop down and cut him off from the world. 

When Sherlock arrived, he expected to be tested by the senior members of the patrol, new to the placement as he was, and so it had been. Mycroft, as both his superior and older brother, had been particularly frustrating to handle. But Sherlock had known that would be the case. He had prepared himself for Mycroft keeping a close eye on him, especially after his conduct in England. He expected Mycroft's meddling to drive him mad.

What he hadn’t expected was that he would meet and fall for a captain, a medical and close-range weapons specialist named John Watson. From the second they met, John captured his interest. John was older than him, twenty-seven to Sherlock's twenty-two years, and higher in rank, and Sherlock was blind-sided when he and John connected so strongly upon that first meeting. John was fascinating, far from ordinary. He was a man of contradictions, kind smiles set against razor-sharp wit and power. He could be ruthless, all with compassion writ deep into his expressions. Since that first day, Sherlock was infatuated. To his uncharacteristic shock, the feeling appeared mutual.

Despite the instant connection, nothing had progressed between them beyond covert touches and searing, blazing stares. Sherlock wanted more, wanted _so much more_, wanted all John might give him. And, given the way John looked at him, the way even the briefest contact between them felt like burning alive, there wasn't much John wouldn't give him. A lack of privacy kept them apart, denying anything so much as a kiss. Sherlock slept in the barracks with other men around him, and John's sleeping arrangements were much the same, in another tent with other officers of his rank. Between patrols and drills and forced marching exercises, free time was a rarity. Military protocol forced them to hide their budding attraction from the rest of the patrol for fear of compromising their team positions.

But Sherlock knew he was hungry for John, and he knew John shared the sentiment. He could feel their connection even now, standing next to John. He felt John’s light touches, snatched whenever possible, like electricity in his veins. Like a supernova waiting to explode, his desire for John sucked the air from his lungs and made something hot and molten burn through his veins.

John amiably bumped his shoulder against Sherlock’s, drawing him out of his thoughts. Even that simple gesture made his body ache with yearning. Brought back to the present moment, Sherlock shook his head to clear it, shooting John a look. His longing must have shown in his eyes, because John's steps faltered, and he sucked in a breath, staring at Sherlock. His own feet planted, drawn to a halt by John's pause, Sherlock's eyes dropped to John's mouth, and his tongue darted out to wet his own. In the back of his head, he tried to think through the rush of lust filling his body and failed. Today was his first reconnaissance patrol, and nervous excitement mixed with intense pining in his stomach, making his breath catch. He felt like a firecracker, ready to explode at the first sign of heat.

“Hurry up!” Mycroft barked ahead of them. John and Sherlock both started and ducked their heads, quickening their pace to catch up with the others.

* * *

Breakfast was runny eggs and dry toast with a side of gluey beans, the typical gourmet meal of the early-morning mess hall. Sherlock picked at his plate with disinterest, trying to ignore John sitting next to him. They sat close, thighs nearly touching, boots clicked together. That one point of contact hummed through Sherlock's body like an electric current, and he finally shoved away his half-finished plate, too keyed-up to force down another mouthful. He sat and waited for the others to finish, drumming his fingers against the tabletop to release some of the energy pent up within his tense body.

Once the other's finished, they trudged together through the faint light of 4 am toward one of the tan, army-style Land Rover patrol vehicles parked beside the barracks. Loading their gear and packs, they each swung inside, Lestrade perched behind the steering wheel with Mycroft in the passenger seat. Moriarty dropped into the back, facing John and Sherlock as they settled across from him. Standing behind the mounted, heavy calibre machine gun, Moran positioned himself as the lookout, his intense green eyes scanning the slowly lightening horizon.

The engine rumbled to life beneath Sherlock. He swayed with the motion of the vehicle as Lestrade drove through the base and out to the desert. A damp breeze blew sand and the smell of water into their faces, and Moriarty scowled seconds before Sherlock felt a drop of rain strike his cheek. He pulled on his helmet, hunkered down, and prepared for the inevitable downpour that plunged from the heavens, bouncing off the heavy fabric of his combat gear. Standing above them, Moran was grinning, seemingly at ease with the rain working its way down the back of his jacket. In the front, Mycroft was complaining about the weather to a steely-faced Lestrade.

The downpour filled the air with the sound of rain against metal and the thick smell of petrichor, and Sherlock folded his arms tight across his chest. Rain slithered down the back of his helmet and his neck, and he scowled. Beside him, John sat with his eyes closed and a strangely serene expression on his attractive face. Sherlock poked at his ribs with an annoyed finger. “Don’t tell me you’re enjoying this?” he demanded when John startled and opened his eyes. Sherlock was aiming for a growl, but his voice only sounded strained and rough. He bit his tongue, cursing at his body's betrayal. No matter how he tried, bloody John Watson got under his skin in such a delicious way, and he both hated and relished it. The man was like a drug, some new brand of heroin that lit Sherlock's body up far brighter than anything bought on the streets ever could.

John shrugged with a good-natured grin. “It’s gonna rain whether I like it or not," he said, tilting his head toward the sky with a small smile. “Figure I may as well accept it. It's nice, the desert rain, and it never lasts long.” He dropped his gaze and nodded at Moran. “He, on the other hand, is just odd.” Sherlock looked up, taking in Moran’s wide grin as water ran down his face. His eyes were wide and wild, strangely bright. Glancing around the back of the Rover, Sherlock noted that Moriarty watched the other man with a surprisingly rapt look on his face.

_ Interesting, _he thought, catching the faint flush colouring Jim’s cheeks. Perhaps Sherlock wasn’t the only one harbouring not-so-secret feelings for a patrol mate.

John’s leg pressed hard against his as their shoulders pushed together with the vehicle's sway, capturing his attention. Sherlock’s thoughts immediately scattered, hard arousal burning deep in his stomach, reawakened by the contact. His mouth went dry from the force of how much he wanted to turn and claim John's lips with his. He ached to lick into his mouth and taste his groan. Run his hands over his bare skin and smell the sweat on John's skin. 

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock stared grimly forward. He willed his body to settle and tried to ignore the knowing little smirk on John's upturned face.

* * *

The downpour lasted a good half hour, making Sherlock grateful for the waterproof fabric of his gear and the rain's desert warmth. When it finally stopped, the smell of wet sand and earth lingered in the air, the environment heating up quickly once the clouds dissipated and revealed the harsh glare of the sun. John rubbed at his arms with vigorous hands to warm his skin, shaking water droplets from his beard. Sherlock stared at his feet, refusing to give in to temptation and stare. If he looked, he'd want to push his fingers into the reddish hair of John's beard, and that would ultimately lead to more than touching. Sherlock folded his hands around the stock of his rifle to keep them occupied. John's elbow brushed his thigh as he bent down to fix his bootlaces, and Sherlock barely bit back the needy sound that rose in his throat.

As the Land Rover bounced over rough terrain and short scrub grass, Moran slowly swivelled the mounted machine gun, humming an off-note version of some popular song. Sherlock watched him nervously, noting the glee flickering in the bombardier’s eyes whenever he looked through the gun’s sight. From his first day in the desert, Moran had twigged something in Sherlock's instincts. He found himself continually tracking the man whenever he was near. It was inevitable, the hair rising on the back of Sherlock's neck whenever Moran appeared, putting him on guard. Despite having nothing to rationalize the feeling, it persisted, and Sherlock eyed the bombardier with undecided suspicion. 

Moriarty stretched out his legs, drawing Sherlock's attention as he shook the water from his boots, a dark look of disdain twisting his face. At Sherlock's side, John silently watched the passing scenery, and his fingers drummed idly against his knee. Sherlock fought the urge to grab those fingers in his own. Christ, he was like a randy teenager, constantly distracted by the whims of his body. He clenched his jaw and forced his eyes to the front of the vehicle, where Mycroft appeared positively bored. Lestrade drove with focused eyes, his mouth a tight, hard line.

Staring at his brother helped settle Sherlock's agitation, erasing his humming lust. Nothing like looking at your overbearing, controlling sibling's face to remind you of feelings like anger, annoyance, and irritation. With his mind clearing, Sherlock turned his focus to the day's mission. Thus far, he was unimpressed with reconnaissance. The desert stretched endlessly around them, nothing but sand and sparse vegetation for miles and miles, and unrelenting boredom began to seep into Sherlock's body. Anywhere else, he would have whined his annoyance and sprawled into a deep sulk, but here, he had no opportunity. He hunkered in his seat and gripped his rifle, trying not to pout.

Running drills would be less dull, even hated as they were. The desert continued to stretch on endlessly, the Rover's tires spitting up sand in great red plumes behind them. 

Sherlock sat up straight after a bit of petulant slouching and tilted his head from one side to the other, eliciting little pops and creaks from tense neck muscles. His body ached from the inactivity, and he turned to look over his shoulder at the sand and rarely green-spotted landscape. His eyes unfocused, blurred, and Sherlock faded away into his head to sort through gathered information. Whenever he faced a period of inactivity, he could rely on his Mind Palace for stimulation. 

Sinking deep into the familiar hallways and rooms, he sorted through every interaction between him and John that morning, memorizing the way John smiled when Sherlock blinked his eyes open and emerged from sleep. The longer he stayed, the dimmer everything became, his brain edging into a state of relaxation.

He didn't mean to doze off, but he did and jumped when an elbow suddenly dug into his side. Blinking, he startled and shot John a sheepish look, his eyes round with surprised embarrassment as colour rose in his face.

“Don’t let Mycroft see you do that,” John muttered, his voice low and firm. But a small smile played along the edges of his lips despite the tone, and Sherlock sighed in response. The sound drew Moriarty’s attention, and he cocked an eyebrow, giving Sherlock a knowing look as his eyes darted t John and back. Sherlock frowned and looked away, knowing full well that Jim knew why Sherlock had hardly slept the night before. Unrequited love and unresolved sexual tension tended to keep one up, with few options for resolution. Privacy was nearly mythical on base, no matter how quiet you were, and he'd been an idiot to think Moriarty hadn't heard him gasping John's name into his knuckles beneath the scratchy blanket of his cot the night before. Gritting his teeth, he urged Moriarty to keep his mouth shut with a stern glare. To his relief, Moriarty smirked but nodded, and Sherlock relaxed. The blush gradually faded, and he cleared his throat, shooting John a strained smile.

When he looked back to the front of the vehicle, he saw Mycroft watching him with sharp eyes. Their gaze met and held, and Sherlock glanced away quickly as John tensed beside him. To Sherlock's horror, Mycroft turned in his seat to fix Sherlock with a hard stare. His brows drew down, and he scrutinized Sherlock's face. Sherlock braced himself, breath coming faster as he waited for Mycroft to deduce Sherlock's hidden thoughts.

But Mycroft never made it past a stern, “Sherlock." Whatever more he had to say was interrupted by the bullet that whizzed past his face. It ricochetted off the roll cage, and everyone froze. With the smell of petrichor hanging in the air, silence fell in the Rover until chaos erupted. 

The Land Rover set up (though the ones I'm referencing are open on the top)


	3. firefight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The patrol encounters trouble, and John makes a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Army slang used in this chapter:
> 
> **Stag:** guard duty  
**Cake & Arse Party:** something has gone bad, usually a mission/being messed around with  
**Head Down:** sleep

“Get down!” Lestrade barked, spurring the patrol into action amid the sound of semi-automatic fire. Mycroft dropped low in his seat, and Sherlock, John and Moriarty all hit the floor, reaching for their weapons. 

Laying on his belly, John listened and waited, trying to pinpoint the location of the shooting. It was a struggle as his awareness kept narrowing to Sherlock, where his shoulder pressed against John's side. His breathing was loud and ragged. When John chanced a glance, he saw his lips flatten into a hard, flat line, his eyes grim and squinting up at the pale sky overhead, rifle cradled against his chest. He looked terrified and exhilarated, gaze darting to John when he caught him looking. They shared a look, and John's lips parted as he released a shaky sigh. 

Above them, Moran swivelled and hunkered, recapturing John's focus. Moran balanced comfortably on his planted feet when Lestrade threw the Rover into a sharp turn. Gunfire shattered the air again, and Sherlock jerked against John's side. John shifted a hand toward him, pressing his fingertips to his hip. Sherlock shot him another look, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, and John stared at him, trying to convey his thoughts: _I'm here. _Overhead, Moran ducked his head to look down the barrel of the mounted automatic weapon, paused, sucked in a breath as his body went stiff and still, and he fired two loud, echoing shots into the distance.

In the following silence, John's ears rang with the loud noise. He could still hear Sherlock’s heavy breathing to his left, and Moriarty’s soft curse by his feet. Another barrage cut past them, and Moran snarled out, “Left! Go left!” He stooped, and a bullet whizzed by before he rose again with a scowl. “Bring us back around, Lestrade!”

Greg skidded the vehicle over the sand, whipping it back the way they’d come. John sucked in a bracing breath and moved into a crouch, finding his balance as the tires slid on loose rock with each wild turn. Setting his elbows on the edge of the seat, he sighted through the crosshairs of his rifle, breathing slowly through a surge of adrenaline. His heart raced in his chest, loud in his ears, blood thundering through his veins. He squinted, searched, and finally caught faint bursts of light in the distance. Steadying his weapon, he fired a quick volley of shots. The butt of the rifle pushed into his shoulder, gear and body absorbing the recoil, arms flexing as he fought against the gun's natural tendency to drift upward with each shot. Moran followed his cue, the heavier roar of the mounted gun drowning out John’s rifle.

A lull followed, and John's exhale whistled through his clenched teeth. Unblinking, he stared through his sight, tensing against the adrenaline tremours vibrating through him. John jerked when a bullet ricocheted off the roll cage next to his head. The metal on metal sound echoed in John’s ears like nails on a chalkboard, and he winced, distracted by the feeling of a hand grabbing desperately onto his ankle. Startled, John looked down to find Sherlock’s terrified eyes fixed on him from where he still lay on the floor. They stared at one another for a moment, with John caught by Sherlock's pale gaze. His pupils were tiny points in his silvery irises, shrunk by the blinding sun overhead, his teeth sinking hard against his bottom lip. Sherlock's face was open and vulnerable, all too easy to read, and his fear for John was evident in the stress playing around his mouth. John reached out and touched his fingertips to the hand still clutched tight around his ankle, bestowing comfort where he could. Sherlock's breath stuttered out on a loud, unsteady sigh, and some of the stiffness in his expression eased. 

Lestrade stomped on the gas, and the Rover lurched forward. The rocking motion broke their gaze, forcing John to crouch against the side of the Land Rover to keep from tumbling out. Bullets hammered the sand behind them, and Moran let out a whoop.

“Sniper!” he shouted, twisting the machine gun and firing into the hills. John surged forward, balanced his elbows and followed his lead, cocking the rifle back and slamming down on the trigger. Something shrieked past his head, leaving a sudden and burning pain in its wake. The sting flared and diminished until it was localized to his neck, the shock brief before John let out a yelp of surprise. He ducked down for cover, shoulders hunched and tense as he felt for the injury. He felt the slick slide of blood on his fingers and cursed.

Like a coiled spring releasing, Sherlock rocketed up into an awkward crouch next to him, crowding in close beside John. He grabbed at John’s face, turning his head this way and that as he felt along John's cheek before pressing a hand hard against the side of John’s neck. His fingers shook, slipping along John's skin with the warm, hot wash of blood. 

"John," he whispered, eyes wide, round and stunned. _"John."_ His fingers slipped, and he resettled them, pressing harder. John could feel his pulse fluttering beneath the pressure and placed a hand over Sherlock's. He squeezed, told himself it was to help control the bleeding and didn't even believe his own lie. Eyes narrowed, John focused on evaluating the injury by the amount of blood and how it felt beneath Sherlock's palm. He was still breathing fine, and he wasn't about to pass out, so it was unlikely the bullet had damaged his trachea or significant arteries. John released a relieved sigh and forced a smile onto his face. When he spoke, his voice was rough but stable, confirming that his larynx was unscathed. Likely just a graze.

"I'm okay, it's okay," he soothed, stroking his fingers over the back of Sherlock's hand. "Not dead."

A muscle leapt in Sherlock's jaw at the poor attempt at humour, his eyes hard on John's face. He didn't reply, just clenched his jaw and pressed harder on the wound. The pressure was almost uncomfortable, and John winced but didn't protest. Sherlock's posture was tense and rigid, and John knew he likely wouldn't respond well if John asked him to lighten up. Instead, he let Sherlock's hand remain and glanced toward the sound of machine gunfire, still stroking his thumb lightly over Sherlock's knuckles.

“Come on, Moran!” Moriarty yelled, crawling across the floor with his rifle held out before him. He wormed his way past John and Sherlock and pressed his back against the seats, firing into the distance as he took over where John had left off.

“Yeah, yeah, give me a second,” Moran snapped, aiming carefully as a shot whizzed past his head. He barely reacted, though the force of the bullet's passing ruffled his short hair. "Nearly there..." He pressed his tongue to the corner of his mouth and fired, spun and fired again. He moved to aim for another, but Lestrade yelled out for them to hold on, and he braced. The Land Rover bounced over a grouping of rocks, and they all clung to the vehicle. Sherlock shifted and almost tilted backward, too focused on pressing down on John's neck to catch him. John braced his boots against a seat and hooked his free around one of the straps on the front of Sherlock's armour, anchoring him in place. Sherlock's breath whooshed out as the action drew them closer, and John clenched his teeth against the urge to tilt forward and breathe in at the curve of his jaw. His attention drifted as Mycroft leaned back to dig out a radio behind the passenger seat, ready to call in an artillery strike if they couldn’t pull themselves out of the shit show.

“Got ‘em!” Moran abruptly shouted, laughing as he fired again. The air fell heavy and silent around them.

As the quiet ticked out, unexpected and deafening after the wild sounds of gunfire, John held his breath, counting the passing seconds. He could feel the rhythm of his pulse beneath Sherlock's hand, Sherlock's own heartbeat fluttering in his palm. It was distracting and thrilling, and John tightened his grip on Sherlock's armour, drawing him closer. Sherlock came without protest, swaying into John's shoulder until his ragged breathing warmed the side of John's face.

In the continued silence, Lestrade guided the vehicle to a rolling stop. He sat stiffly, hesitating with his foot on the pedal as the six men waited, the sound of their breathing echoing in hard, sharp gasps. The hush hung over them, and Moran gripped the mounted machine gun with white knuckles, tensed like a predator ready to pounce. Sherlock quivered next to John, one of his legs half-hooked over John's thighs, and his hand still pressed hard against John's neck. His bright eyes flashed, wide and wary as they scanned the horizon.

When nothing happened for a good five minutes, John let out a tremendous breath as his shoulders sagged, suddenly feeling lead-heavy. He turned his head to look at Sherlock and found Sherlock looking back. Their faces were hardly a foot apart, and his breathing was fast and shallow, tickling along the edge of John's jaw. Sherlock's eyes dropped to John's mouth, and John shivered. Staring, smelling the adrenaline and sweat on Sherlock's body, John struggled not to act on the surge of yearning that flooded through him. He closed his eyes instead of closing the gap between them. Clenched his hands into fists instead of letting himself lean forward and trace Sherlock's full lips with his tongue. He sighed instead of giving in to the urge to crowd him down to the floor, pinned beneath his body.

Gritting his teeth, John forced out a question, “How is it?” His voice was tight and husky, and he pasted a strained smile on his face as he tilted his head away. Sherlock, who was still staring hard at John's mouth, took the cue and carefully lifted his hand to look at the skin beneath.

“Just a graze. Doesn't look deep.” The relief was evident in his voice, and John's smile softened. His aching arousal, bolstered by epinephrine, began to fade into steady affection.

“Here,” Moriarty interrupted, leaning toward them with a medkit. Sherlock took it with a nod. His hands were sure and steady as he cleaned and bandaged the wound. John was the only one trained as a formal medic, but, as a requirement for acceptance to the 4/73 Battery, they all had Advanced Forces medical training, and Sherlock knew what he was doing. Closing his eyes, John leaned into Sherlock's confident touch, letting himself take what little contact he could between them.

“How’s everyone doing?” Lestrade asked after Sherlock finished bandaging the graze, and they settled once more. Bullet casings rolled underfoot, and John kicked at one, watching it disappear under Moriarty's chair as each of them voiced their status. Sebastian threw out an enthusiastic thumbs-up, a broad, unpleasantly sharp grin on his face.

“Finally, we see some bloody action.” He looked at John, and the smile slipped toward a smirk. “Well, maybe _bloody_ is a little on the nose.” Brief silence stretched out as they took in his words, processed the awful pun. Moriarty laughed first, his sudden snort loud in the quiet before the others followed. Even Mycroft let out a low chuckle, ignoring Sherlock's shocked stare. John forced a smile, watching Moran warily from the corners of his eyes.

* * *

The rest of the patrol passed uneventfully, but no one complained after the firefight. Mycroft didn’t address Sherlock again, whatever he’d been about to say in the prelude seemingly forgotten. John watched the repetitive scenery speed by, overly aware of how Sherlock kept twitching in his direction, his hand spasming against his own leg. John clenched his jaw, making his neck sting.

He hated this. Hated the hiding, the necessity of denying their feelings for one another. John flexed his stiff fingers and wondered if it was worth it all this resisting. Was his position worth the enforced space between them? He wanted Sherlock, was sure that Sherlock wanted him back, and every second spent ignoring the spark between them was beginning to drive John mad. It was like an obsession, with his thoughts endlessly occupied by Sherlock. By his mouth, his plush lips, by imagining what his bare skin looked like and wondering what kind of sounds Sherlock would make if John drew his tongue over the pale curve of his throat.

Sighing, John casually moved his foot until his boot kicked against Sherlock’s. Sherlock went still at the contact, a loud breath rushing out from his open mouth. He settled back in his seat, and John shot him a glance. Sherlock looked back at him with dark eyes. His lips parted slightly, and his tongue pressed to the inside of his bottom lip. The little pink scrap of tongue lit a smouldering heat low in John's stomach, and he barely held back a groan before he forced his gaze away.

Of course it was worth keeping his distance. John wouldn’t be here, right now, if he lost his position, and a relationship with Sherlock could ruin them both. His hands curled into tight fists, and he rubbed his knuckles against his thighs, the thought doing little to reduce the ache of longing in his chest.

* * *

Lestrade brought the Rover to a stop beside a rough crop of rocks when the sun began to set, shooting fire across the sky as it sank below the horizon. Cutting the engine, he twisted around to look at the men in the back. “Alright," he began, rolling tension from his shoulders with a low groan, "we’ll camp here tonight. Moran, you’re on stag.” Moran nodded eagerly, drumming his fingers against the stock of the mounted gun. Lestrade sighed, his expression tight with frustration as he stepped out into the sand. “Not sure how we’ll conduct recon after that cake and arse party, but we'll sort that in the morning. For now, I want you all head down. Rotate watch by the hour. We're out of here at 0400.”

The men followed his lead, leaping out of the vehicle. John heard Sherlock groan, “I’ll never catch up on my sleep," as he pushed his rifle to drape from his chest, slinging a pack over his shoulders. John grinned, hoisting his own bag out of the Rover, hanging back to wait for him.

“Ah, come on, Holmes," he teased, tugging playfully at an errant curl peeking out from under Sherlock's helmet. It clung to his fingers, soft with dried sweat. The texture sent a pang through John's body, and his breath went ragged. He tried to hide it by forcing a smile. "You’ll get lots of sleep when you’re dead.” John let himself sling an arm over Sherlock's narrow shoulders, making a false show of brotherhood as an excuse to bring Sherlock close to his body.

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes, but he leaned into John for the briefest of seconds. Pressed together, John could smell him, a mix of sweat and rain and exhaustion, and he bit his lip. He struggled with the urge to pull him even closer and press his nose to the little hollow at the back of Sherlock's draw. Instead, his eyes flickered to the others, walking ahead, and John dropped his arm back to his side, shrugging his pack into place as he looked up at the darkening sky. He cleared his throat, avoiding the flash of disappointment on Sherlock's face. Stars glittered overhead, and John sighed. Catching the sound, Sherlock turned his gaze upward as well. He stared at them for a long moment before he said, “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

Eyes shifting from the sky to the man at his side, John watched Sherlock stare up into the sky, and his breath caught in his throat. “Yeah,” he replied, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat and wet his dry lips, gaze still on Sherlock. "They're stunning." Sherlock glanced at John with surprise. He studied John's face for a moment before he smiled slightly, his pupils widening and darkening his pale eyes. Tension stretched out between them, grew taut and threatened to shatter. John's breath went shallow and fast as Sherlock's eyes once more dropped to John's mouth, his lips pressed hard together. 

The moment broke when Moriarty rocked up behind them, throwing his arms over both of their shoulders. They both jumped, and the tension dissipated. John breathed out a long, low sigh.

“Going to be bloody cold tonight," Moriarty complained, angling them toward the rocks. Leaning his head between John and Sherlock, he bared his teeth in a sharp, suggestive grin. “I suppose we’ll all have to cuddle up to stay warm.” He wiggled his brows, and John scowled. On the other side of Moriarty’s grinning face, Sherlock's cheeks went red before he abruptly broke away, ducking out from under Jim's grip. John watched him stalk away towards an outcropping of rocks. His shoulders stiff, he dropped to the ground and thunked his back against a boulder.

“Ooh. Someone is _grumpy." _Moriarty jostled John’s shoulder playfully. John just glared and shrugged him off.

“Piss off, Jim,” he snapped, feeling irked. The smile immediately dropped from Moriarty’s face, and his brown eyes narrowed, flickering over John's face.

“Oops! Careful.” His gaze sharp, he jerked his head towards Sherlock. His smile was a pale slash in the dark. “You’ve rather shown your hand, Captain Watson.”

John frowned at him before stepping closer, crowding into his space. Moriarty was slightly taller, but John drew himself to his full height, voice low and dangerous he breathed, “If you don't shut your mouth, I’ll shut it for you.”

They stared at one another for a long moment, the air humming with rising hostility. Finally, Jim grinned, a broad, teasing smile, and he clapped John’s shoulder, barking out a strange laugh. “Ah, Johnny boy, you should see your face!" He waved a dismissive hand, nudging John's arm. "Just a little joke, settle down.” He tipped a wink before he turned and strode away, whistling an aimless tune into the desert air. Moriarty moved toward Moran, who was taking apart and cleaning pieces of the mounted machine gun, his rifle at his feet. Standing at the front of the Land Rover, maps spread over the hood, Lestrade and Mycroft were deep in conversation.

A sigh escaping his lips, John shook the aggression from his body. Still buzzing with unspent energy, he turned and looked to where Sherlock leaned against the rocks. He was curled up in his sleeping bag with his boots and helmet set neatly in the sand, hands clasped over his stomach as he stared up at the stars. His brow furrowed, a pensive expression on his angular face.

Watching him, John hesitated, wondering if he was stupid enough to go over. He realized the answer was a definite yes as he found his feet taking him forward without conscious thought. Sherlock looked up at the sound of his approach. Something flickered over his face, fleeting, there and gone too fast for John to identify. 

“You should sleep," he said, stopping at Sherlock's feet. Sherlock blinked up at him, studying John's face before silently sliding over. John deliberated and finally sank beside him, keeping careful inches between them as they gazed up at the stars. Sherlock was still, his expression thoughtful, his eyes unfocused. Respecting the quiet, John examined his face in profile, eyes roving hungrily over Sherlock's sharp features. He was stunning in a strange, singular way, and John couldn't tear himself away from looking at him.

God, how he _ached_ for Sherlock. John wasn't sure if he'd ever wanted something as badly as he wanted Sherlock, but if he had, his mind didn't care to remember. It felt like madness, the waves of longing rolling over him. He finally managed to tear his eyes away, digging into his pack for an excuse to hold his attention.

The night was cold, the temperature dropping quickly with the loss of the pounding sun. John could feel the slide of sand beneath his legs, through his gear, and shivered as he unrolled his sleeping bag. Pulling off his helmet and boots, he stuffed his legs into the padded bedroll with a quiet sigh, worming into the promise of warmth. He found a somewhat smooth space to rest his head and leaned back, arms folded behind his skull. Sherlock sat like a statue beside him with his face tilted skyward, his eyes dark and impossible to read.

Exhaustion settled over John's body, fatigue seeping into his muscles. The tension from earlier, the ebbing adrenaline, left him feeling wrung out and raw, and the injury on his neck ached beneath the bandage. Leaving Sherlock to his thoughts, he closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, trying to doze. But sleep eluded him, kept at bay by the heat emanating from Sherlock’s body. He was agonizingly close and yet unattainable, his proximity an irresistible pull. It filled John with nervous energy that he couldn’t seem to banish.

Unable to fight it any longer, he opened his eyes and turned to Sherlock, but the platitudes died on his lips when he found him asleep. Sherlock's head lolled back against the rocks, his curls crushed and wild, and John stared, stunned. Sleep softened Sherlock's face, smoothed out the hard lines of his brow and parted his lips. John stared and breathed an audible sigh. Regaining his control, he stifled a laugh behind his hand and tore his eyes away from the temptation of Sherlock's plush mouth. He looked at his watch. It was 22:49. They would be up and moving in a little over 5 hours. John folded his arms and settled back against the rock, shifting his feet inside the sleeping bag. The sand was soft beneath his body through the nylon.

The air held a chill, the breeze blowing cold grit against John's face, and Sherlock shivered delicately in his sleep. Near the Land Rover, Lestrade, Mycroft and Moriarty lay in a close line, tucked into their sleeping bags. Standing in the back of the vehicle, staring into the distance, Moran smoked a hand-rolled cigarette and hummed an unfamiliar tune that drifted to John.

Sucking in a long, low breath, John shifted closer to Sherlock as Sherlock shivered again. He let Sherlock's head slip onto his shoulder, and John nudged his nose gently into his curls. Breathing him in, he sighed and closed his eyes, the tension easing from his body instantly. John slipped his arm along the small of Sherlock's back, resting his hand on the curve of a hip. Thus anchored, John slowly fell into sleep. His last awareness was of Sherlock’s breath tickling against his bandaged neck.

* * *

He woke with bleary eyes and a dry mouth. It was still full dark, the stars hidden overhead by a dusting of thin clouds. John's neck ached from where the bullet had grazed flesh, pulse throbbing steadily in the split skin. Shifting, he tried to alleviate a crick in his neck while his mind felt slowed by interrupted sleep. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his face before sensing as something moved in front of him. John stiffened as the sand shifted, and a warm body moved slowly into his. He cracked an eye open to see Sherlock. His muzzy brain reminded John that he was likely returning from his watch. However, Sherlock's position wiped away most of John's coherency. He was on his knees in front of John, his eyes wide and blinking in the dark. Muttering something under his breath, he slipped in the sand and tilted forward, clumsily reaching for his sleeping bag. Sherlock let out a soft huff of surprise when he lost his balance, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet night air. His soft curls brushed John’s cheek, and a heady, enticing scent filled his nose, raising goosebumps along his flesh. Without thinking, John opened his arms and caught Sherlock against his chest, relishing the little sound Sherlock made as John's hands skated over his back to cup his shoulders. Warm breath puffed lightly into John's face, and John opened his eyes fully to see Sherlock's face hovering over his, balanced on John's chest. One of his hands gripped John's waist, the other landing on John's thigh, Sherlock's breath quickening at the contact.

John didn't hesitate. Ignoring every instinct screaming for caution, he responded. His fingers slid into short curls, using the grip to tilt Sherlock’s head back as John brought his lips to Sherlock's neck. He felt the rapid beat of his pulse under tanned skin and groaned quietly, tongue dragging over warm flesh. Sherlock gasped and shivered, and John felt the goosebumps that rippled over his skin. Ravenous, John pulled Sherlock closer. His nose drifted along Sherlock's jaw before John cupped his face between his hands and kissed his mouth, sighing when Sherlock’s lips immediately dropped open. He tasted enthusiasm on Sherlock's tongue, sweet and intoxicating. Ducking his head, Sherlock sank into John, a quiet groan slipping from deep in his chest when John gently tugged his fingers through tangled hair. 

"John," Sherlock whispered, his voice cracking around the name. "John..." He sounded wrecked just from a bit of snogging, and John's entire body lit up in response to the hungry way Sherlock pressed closer. His hand kneaded over John's thigh as their tongues brushed tentatively, making John pull him closer to deepen the kiss, his body reacting with unsteady fingers and a rush of excitement. A soft, shaky sigh tickled his skin with Sherlock's exhale. The sweet, delicate response fed John's aching need, and he moaned, sucking lightly at Sherlock's bottom lip.

When they separated, John curved a hand along Sherlock’s jaw. His fingers splayed over the sweep of a sharp cheekbone. He studied Sherlock's eyes as Sherlock stared back at him, his lips swollen and slightly parted. Arousal flooded through John’s body, heat sinking into the pit of his stomach. With it came a hard certainty, that what he was feeling was far more than pure lust. It was so much more, tinged with need and the desire for more, shaped by the aching yearning for Sherlock to be his in every way. 

John wanted him. Wholly and completely.

Leaning forward, he captured Sherlock’s mouth again, tasting his tongue and moaning low in his throat. They kissed slowly, languidly, Sherlock's tentative reciprocation, a tender and perfect contrast to John's all-consuming desire. He never wanted it to stop, wanted more, imagined how easy it would be to roll Sherlock beneath him. To strip him bare and take him, swallowing Sherlock's sounds of pleasure with hungry kisses. The thought was heady, driving him to wrap his arms tight around Sherlock and haul him into his lap with a needy growl. Sherlock gasped against his lips and wriggled closer, panting into John's open-mouthed kisses.

John nipped at Sherlock's lips, once, twice before tilting their foreheads together as Sherlock quietly wheezed against his cheek. Trembling, John stroked his fingertips down Sherlock's face and fought for control over his body. He failed, tilting his head to press his lips to Sherlock's temple, his cheek, over his jaw and into the hollow of the throat. Sherlock whimpered and shuddered against him, pressing into John with his nose in John's hair.

When John finally regained his senses, surfacing for air, he looked over Sherlock's shoulder and made eye contact with a grinning Moran.

Perched in a squat against the Land Rover, Moran worked polish into the barrel of his rifle, gaze pinned to John's. His eyes gleamed in the dark, and John stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. Panic plunged cold over him, effectively snuffing his arousal.

Moran's watch had ended ages ago. What the fuck was he still doing awake?

In the front seat of the vehicle, Lestrade sat on his watch. He was facing away from them, and John was sure he hadn’t seen anything. His eyes darting back to Moran, John gently nudged Sherlock's cheek with his nose and reluctantly lifted him out of his lap. Sherlock blinked, appearing dazed as confusion filtered into his blissful expression. "John?" he murmured, a soft query as he searched John's eyes. He looked heartbreakingly vulnerable before his face closed off, making John's hands clench as Sherlock turned and spotted Moran. Even in profile, John could see how the colour drained from Sherlock's skin. 

The grin never leaving his face, Moran rubbed gun oil into the cold metal of his rifle and drummed his fingers against his leg, watching them.

Glaring back, John breathed in a shaky breath, whispering, "Fuck." 


	4. blow smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The patrol investigates the source of the firefight from the day before, and Moran's true character becomes evident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Army slang used in this chapter:_
> 
> **Crow** – “combat recruit of war”; a newbie fresh out of boot camp  
**NFI** – Not Fucking Interested  
**Scoff** – Food  
**Doss Bags** – Sleeping bag  
**Fighting Fit** – pretty self-explanatory; fully functioning, either men or gear  
**Diggers** – Eating utensils

_So, Captain Watson has it bad for the crow, huh? _Sebastian smirked at his thoughts, stretching his arms over his head as he watched Watson stare at the horizon. Moran flashed back to earlier when Watson came to take his post. He paused, standing over Sebastian and staring down at him with a wary expression. Sebastian had relished the tension in his face, smirking up at him, utterly unperturbed. Silence stretched out, Watson's mouth opening and closing before he strode away to take his watch, his back stiff.

It was precisely the kind of uncertain wariness Sebastian hoped for, and he fiddled with his gun with his eyes locked on John. The captain stood his watch with rigid posture, his body language anxious while the sky lightened, and the night drew closer to 0400 hours. He shot a glance at Sebastian, where Moran sat languidly in the sand, a cigarette burning away between his fingers. Watson’s face was a mixture of nerves and fury, and Sebastian grinned whenever their eyes met. 

With the others beginning to stir, Sebastian felt a ripple of excitement run through him. He took a long drag on his cigarette, inhaling the acrid smoke, and turned his attention to new quarry. His eyes landed on Sherlock, where he stood by the rocks, shaking sand from his sleeping bag before stuffing his feet into his boots. Sherlock kept his eyes on the ground, but the tightness of his mouth told Sebastian he noticed the scrutiny. Still, Sherlock gave no other indication of awareness, walking past Moran with his gaze fixed firmly in the distance. Sebastian chuckled as he passed, flicking ash onto the sand.

Sherlock was the weakest point in the patrol, the freshest meat, still green with inexperience. Between covering them yesterday during the firefight and putting down the insurgents, Sebastian had watched how the fear crept into Sherlock's face. Part of it was the sheer newness of his deployment, but Sebastian thought there was more to it. Catching him and Captain Watson swapping spit last night, right out in the open for anyone to see, only confirmed Sebastian's suspicions. 

Weak points. So easy to expose and manipulate.

Grinding his heels against the sand, Sebastian smirked. He mouthed at the cigarette and sighed smoke from the corner of his lips, wondering what sort of fun he might have with the new information. There was something there, maybe something worth exploiting, he just wasn't sure what or how yet. 

Sherlock mounted the back of the Rover, only to be waved to the front of the Rover by Lestrade. “I want you up front today, Holmes," he ordered, and Sherlock paused before stepping off the tailgate and moving over. “You’re driving,” Lestrade told him, and Holmes slipped behind the wheel. Turning, Lestrade studied the men scattered around the Rover. Moran sucked on his smoke and rolled his neck, stretching out his muscles as Lestrade pointed at Jim. “Moriarty, you’re riding shotgun.” Jim tilted his head and moved toward the vehicle, carelessly kicking sand over one of Sebastian’s legs as he passed. 

Sebastian clenched his jaw, his expression darkening as a low growl rumbled in his chest. Moriarty froze, and they looked at one another for a moment. Jim's eyes narrowed, and Sebastian's lip curled back. Sebastian flicked ash toward the other man with a sneer, expecting Moriarty to back down and scurry. When he held his ground, staring steadily back at Moran, Sebastian's eyebrows rose, and an appreciative little smile crept over his face. Moriarty stared at him before finally dropping his eyes and moving on. Moran watched him slide into the passenger seat beside Sherlock, his expression thoughtful. The others settled into the back of the Rover, perusing a map with red and black circles drawn across the landmass. 

Rising to his feet, Sebastian stepped onto the tailgate and jumped into the back of the Rover, taking his place at the mounted gun. Fingers stroking over the cold metal, he looked into the distance, at the sand and the fading dark of early morning. His gaze dropped to Moriarty, and he pressed his tongue between his teeth, intrigued. Behind him, the others spoke in quiet voices, the map wrinkling beneath their scouting fingers. Feeling eyes on his back, Sebastian looked over his shoulder to find Watson watching him. He grinned, and Watson scowled before turning his attention back to the map.

“All right, you mad bastards," Lestrade barked, leaning forward to direct Sherlock behind the steering wheel. "Let's move out." The patrol vehicle rumbled to life. Sherlock guided it across the soft sand to harder ground, picking up the faint traces of an old, faded road. 

Rocking on the balls of his feet, Sebastian squinted into the distance. His body hummed with anticipation.

* * *

As the day stretched out, the sun rose high overhead. The heat drew sweat over tanned brows as the landscape passed by in a false calm. The lack of action set Moran on edge, and he tapped restless fingers against the mounted gun, scanning the horizon with sharp eyes. He itched for combat, for blood in the sands, for the smokey scent of death in the air. To Moran, the only purpose of living was to end the cycles of others. He craved violence and wanted something to sink a bullet into, and joining the army helped feed his bloodlust. Yesterday had been spectacular, his veins singing with adrenaline, and he ached for a repeat.

“Hey, up there, to the right.” Lestrade’s voice broke into his thoughts, and Moran tilted his head forward, watching as they drove up to an outcropping. His eyes scanned the terrain. His lips peeled back in a snarl, fingers twitching over the mounted gun with anticipation. 

They pulled over next to an overhang of rock, covering the vehicle from distant eyes. Swinging his rifle over his chest, Moran jumped out first, his boots hitting the sand with a muffled _whump. _Crouching low, he slid a full clip into the gun and inched around to look over the outcropping. Moriarty and Sherlock followed close behind, with John slightly back, covering the rear. Ducked down beside the Rover, Lestrade and Mycroft stood ready and tensed, prepared for action.

When he peered around the rocks, Sebastian spotted an empty sniper mount and the still body of a man. Dried blood and sand coated the side of his head, and he was missing his eyes—dinner for the vultures, no doubt. Sebastian straightened and walked over to the body, grinning down at the dead man's empty stare. There was something almost poetic about an eyeless sniper.

The rest of the patrol moved forward, scouring the surroundings with weapons raised, their expressions wary. With little cover, there weren’t many places to hide, and the patrol checked each quickly. Confirming that they were alone, the others lowered their guns as Mycroft and Lestrade strode up to join the rest of the patrol.

“Where’s the gun?" Sebastian asked, glaring at the empty tripod mount. "Someone got away.” He kicked out angrily, and the metal stand toppled over. After a pause, he kicked sand at the dead body, filled with fury at the anticlimactic discovery.

“Stop that,” Watson barked roughly, his tone commanding. Sebastian lifted his head, turning dead eyes toward him.

“Oops,” he replied, toneless and amicable, letting his lips lift in a sharp grin. Watson stared at him, clearly unsettled. Sebastian stared back and flicked his eyes toward Sherlock until John reluctantly dropped his gaze. His lips pressed into a hard line, fingers curling into fists at his sides.

“Moran is right," Mycroft said, capturing their attention. He pointed past the body. In the sand, barely discernable save for the few areas dotted with scrub grass, were tire tracks. “Someone left in a hurry, and we can’t be certain how many.”

Sherlock sidled up beside his brother, his expression thoughtful as he stared at the ground. His eyes darted from the body to the tire tracks and narrowed. Folding his arms over his chest, he shrugged, a smug little smirk on his lips. Moran fantasized about how he would wipe it off as Sherlock said, “I’d say three.” Mycroft rolled his eyes while John grinned, shooting Sherlock a besotted look that made Moran hiss.

“Oh?" Mycroft sighed, squinting at his brother with a doubtful twist to his lips. "Pray tell, brother mine, how have you come to such a conclusion?” His voice was heavy with sarcasm.

While Sherlock explained his thought process, the two brothers sniping at one another, Sebastian sighed and tuned them out. Now that there was no chance for action, he was uninterested in the conversation. He lit a cigarette and flicked the ashes into the wind, flipping his lighter deftly over his knuckles. Where was the violence? _Pathetic._ He kicked sand over the body again and sneered in Watson’s direction when John frowned at him. _Yeah, _Sebastian thought, baring his teeth, _g__o on, Watson. I _dare _you._

But John dropped his gaze and turned away. Moran smirked as John's eyes went, unerringly, to Sherlock. Snorting his scorn, Sebastian reached his arms over his head, stretching slow kinks from his back with the cigarette pinched between his teeth. He reflected idly on what he had managed to glimpse last night, Sherlock and John's kiss, and wondered what to do with the knowledge. 

Feeling eyes on him, the sensation tickling the back of his neck, he turned to find Moriarty watching him. Perched on the edge of a rock, Jim sat with his hands dangling loosely between his knees, his keen gaze fixed on Sebastian. Moran’s mouth quirked up at the corners, and he took a long drag off the cigarette, blowing a thick cloud of smoke into the air. Moriarty looked at him with his rapt expression, and Moran smirked.

Maybe there was fun to be had after all.

* * *

Another good few hours of creeping through fuck-all nowhere, they came upon a small town. Crumbling buildings dotted the desert terrain, walls falling down and marked with the bite of bullets. Alerted by the growl of their engine, a skinny dog slunk away from their approach. Teeth showing in a nervous grin, its tail tucked between its spindly legs. Moran pinned it between the sights of the mounted gun, considered firing, and straightened with a sigh as it disappeared from view. He was over the side of the Rover before it stopped, landing in the sand with a smooth crouch. Moran stalked around a falling-down wall with his rifle raised, ducking into a building to find it empty, save for shrapnel and refuse. Stepping back into the open, he watched the others do the same, each man moving low and slow around doorways and corners. Moran stood at the rear, staring at the backs turned to him with explicit trust.

_ It would be so easy to take them out, _he mused, tracing his tongue over his teeth. They’d never expect it. He could shoot them all dead, and no one would even know what hit them. Moran grinned at the thought, fingers curling slowly around the stock of his gun. 

Lestrade's voice split the silence, drawing him out of his bloodthirsty fantasy, "Looks like we're clear, folks." 

Moran balanced the rifle against his shoulder and sighed his disappointment, rolling his neck to look up at the sky. If they didn't see action soon, he might go mad. The hot afternoon sun beat down on his face, and sweat trickled along his temple, over his cheek. He flicked it away with sharp fingers.

“We're going to bunk down here for a couple days,” Greg announced, gesturing the men forward as he spread a map over the hood of the Rover. “We need to let things settle down, and I am NFI in coming upon armed men who are expecting us.” He looked up as the five other men gathered around, staring each of them hard in the face. “We’ll keep watch, two at a time, and rotate every two hours—day _and_ night. Got it?” His voice was firm, and they nodded with grim faces and serious eyes. Moran quivered at the thought of ambush, licking his lips in anticipation. “Okay, scoff time, then I want you all deep in your doss bags and fighting fit.” Greg gestured to himself and Mycroft. “We’ll take first watch after eats.”

The men spread out, some setting their backs to the walls of buildings with rifles on outstretched legs, others standing as they set up small camp stoves and heated boil-ready rations. 

Kneeling with a cigarette dangling from his lips, Sebastian fished a shiny silver packet out of roiling water and shook it off. Beside him, Moriarty crouched down and pushed an elbow into Moran’s side. “Hey, you got any diggers? I can’t find mine.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. Flicking ash from the end of his smoke, he dug into his pack. Moran found the utensil kit by feel alone and tossed into Moriarty’s chest, grinning as Jim scrambled to grab it. “Nice reflexes, dimwit,” he grunted when Moriarty missed the offering, dropping the kit into the sand. Moriarty glared at him, his face flushed and ugly with anger.

“Sod off," he snapped. Aching for conflict, Sebastian swung on him instantly. He grabbed Moriarty's wrist with stiff fingers. His grip was rough, knuckles turning white as Moran dug his nails into combat gear. He felt bones shift beneath his hold and grinned at Moriarty's wince.

With their faces inches apart, Moran whispered, "Make me." 

Moriarty stared at him. His face paled with sweat trickling down his forehead. He smelled like adrenaline, and Sebastian could feel him trembling but didn’t think it was out of fear. If anything, Moriarty emanated elation, his eyes bright and his mouth open as he panted out a hot breath. Letting the small bones of Jim’s wrist grind together in his grip, relishing the sense of control, Sebastian finally released him. He shoved the man away roughly. Moriarty caught himself on his hands, a flinch rippling through his body, but he didn’t make a sound. Despite himself, Moran was impressed. He turned away with a secret smile.

While Jim dusted himself off, Moran pulled a knife from the pocket of his combat gear. Retrieving the boiled food pack from where it had landed in the sand, he sliced into the silver foil and tilted the open corner to his mouth, shaking the bland gruel past his lips. Beside him, Moriarty dropped into a sitting position in the sand and bit into a rations bar, his silence contemplative.

As they ate, Moran noted how excited energy rolled off of Moriarty in hot, feverish waves. Despite the violence between them mere moments ago, Moriarty settled quickly and with an unexpected air of calm beside a man who had almost broken his wrist.

_Interesting, _Moran thought, watching him from the corner of his eyes. He turned his gaze toward the horizon. Swallowing his mouthful, he lit another hand-rolled cigarette and wondered at the significance of Moriarty's nearness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me so damn long to write, goddamn, I don't even know why.


	5. night and day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John warns Sherlock about Moran and a shift occurs in their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited to add dog tags because I damn well forgot about them

Perched against the low wall of a crumbling building with John cleaning his rifle next to him, Sherlock leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The faint whisper of a hot breeze moved over his face and ruffled his curls. Sitting in the sun felt like trying to relax in an oven, the draft bringing little in the way of relief. He felt dirty, his skin salty with sweat and body humid beneath the weight of his gear. Sherlock pulled off his helmet and wiped his hand across his brow, shaking perspiration from fingers to sand with a grimace. “Christ,” he muttered, raking his nails through the damp curls sticking to his scalp. “I feel like I haven’t showered in a month.” John snorted, pushing together the parts of his rifle with a sharp click before he glanced at Sherlock. His eyes lingered on Sherlock's fingers, at the hair tangled between his knuckles, and darted away.

“It only gets better,” he replied with false cheer. Sherlock glared at him, noted when John’s smile faded and followed his gaze in time to catch the tail end of Moran, turning on Moriarty. He watched Moran grab Jim's wrist and lean into him with intimidation evident in every inch of his body. Sherlock frowned at the expression slipping over Jim’s face before Sebastian threw him into the sand, and Sherlock lost sight of Moriarty.

“There’s something off about them,” John said, his voice was pitched low and edged with tension. Sherlock looked over to find John's brow creased, his eyes dark and wary. “I can’t quite figure it out, but…” he glanced at Sherlock, his mouth pulling down at the corners, “I don’t trust either of them."

Sherlock blinked. His eyes wandered over John's face, taking in the hard lines of his jaw, half-hidden beneath the reddish scruff of his beard. His attention drifting, eyes falling briefly to John's lips, he quickly dropped his gaze to his hands. “Do you think Moran will say something to Lestrade?” he asked softly, plucking at the stiff fabric of his sleeve. John cleared his throat and shifted in the sand, an uncomfortable ambiance rising from his direction.

“I don’t know,” he replied, and Sherlock heard the slow and careful edge in his tone.

Sherlock looked up and away, his eyes on the horizon. “And if he does? If he says something to Lestrade? Or... to... Mycroft?" He swallowed, and his throat clicked. "What if he tells Mycroft?" His voice dwindled until it was hardly more than a whisper, "He won't let me stay, John." Sherlock's brow creased, his eyes unfocused and still fixed on the horizon. "If he finds out..." he shook his head with a helpless shrug. "I don't know where he'll send me, but I know it will be far from here... far from you." His shaking hands curled together in his lap, Sherlock kept his eyes forward, afraid of what he might see in John's face if he looked. John stayed silent for a long moment, and Sherlock listened to his breathing, counting inhale, exhale, inhale before John finally spoke.

“We’ll figure it out when—_if," _he corrected sharply, "that happens." The reply was soft, and Sherlock shivered when John's fingertips brushed his wrist. John gently untangled Sherlock's hands, curling their fingers together in the sand. Sherlock sucked in an audible breath as the sudden weight on his chest lifted. John gave his hand a light squeeze, prompting, “Okay?” Sherlock finally turned to look at him, and their eyes locked. With John gazing back at him like that, with warmth in his face and something tender lurking in his expression, Sherlock wanted to believe him.

“Okay,” he whispered, and John’s answering smile brought a wash of dizzy relief over him. No one had ever had such an impact on Sherlock. It was terrifying how easily John Watson demolished his barriers. Try as he might, Sherlock couldn't quite find it in him to build them back up again.

"Good," John said, squeezing Sherlock's hand again. "Yeah, that's good."

Finished with his rifle, John settled the weapon across his legs. He looked back to Sebastian and Moriarty, who sat silently near one another. Following his gaze, Sherlock noted a weird, feverish glow to Moriarty’s face and Moran’s smirk. Unsettled, he closed his eyes and focused on the feeling of John's fingertips stroking lightly over the back of his hand.

* * *

Lestrade rose to his feet as the afternoon stretched into evening, interrupting the passive quiet of the resting patrol team. “Alright, folks, I want heads down!” he announced, clapping his hands together to draw and keep their attention. “Find somewhere to crash, and stay there. Mycroft and I are the first watches, then Holmes and Moran, followed by Watson and Moriarty. We’ll regroup in the morning.” Nodding to each of them, he turned and walked to where Mycroft sat on the hood of the Land Rover, his rifle settled comfortably in his lap with one hand curled over the stock.

Tired and stiff, Sherlock picked up his pack and looked around. Sebastian and Jim had already disappeared, presumably to wherever they might bunk down. Mycroft and Lestrade shared quiet discussion, perched on the Rover's hood with their heads bent together. John, already on his feet and slightly ahead of him, turned and met Sherlock's eyes. With the two of them almost alone, no one paid any attention when John held out his hand. There was a solemn quality to his gaze, and when Sherlock took the offered hand, he found John's skin hot to the touch. A faint smile touching his lips, John drew him toward a building with holes in the roof and a door hanging open, and Sherlock followed silently.

John stepped aside, letting him enter first before moving in quickly on Sherlock's heels, pausing only to close the broken door as much as the rusted hinges would allow. Standing in the middle of the building, the floor faded and rough with sand, Sherlock watched John turn toward him. His expression was intense, with his blue eyes darkening as the pupils dilated. The speed of it took Sherlock's breath away, and he stared at John, studying his shadowed face in the fall of evening. His intent gaze made colour rush into Sherlock's face, and he felt it burn in his cheeks, his breathing finally returning only to quicken.

"Sherlock," John sighed, moving closer. There was a question in how he said Sherlock's name, something unspoken and humming in the distance between them, growing heavier with every step John took toward him. 

His pulse quickening, Sherlock shivered, watching John advance on him like a predator moving in on its prey. Unlike a vulnerable animal caught unaware, Sherlock felt electrified, energized, set alight by the gleam of need in John's eyes. He had seconds to react before John crowded into him. His hands latched onto Sherlock's wrists, squeezing and sweeping upward to his shoulders, drawing him forward. "Sherlock," he repeated himself in a hoarse whisper. John made it sound as necessary as breathing air, and Sherlock sighed, yielding immediately. John's lips brushed over his jaw, and his tongue followed. Hot and wet, it slicked over skin turned rough by stubble, making Sherlock's knees threaten to buckle.

A breathy, "Oh, John," slipped from his lips, and Sherlock rolled his head back. He willingly bared his neck, gasping into a soft moan as John mouthed hungrily over his throat, his teeth dragging slowly down the skin, tongue lathing in the wake of the stinging contact. "Yes," Sherlock murmured, fingers hooking into John's gear, holding him close. "Yes, more. _Please."_ He was begging already. Never begged in his life, and here he was, pleading for John not to stop. 

John listened. He pressed closer and pinned Sherlock to the wall, his movements gentle but persistent, their bodies slotting together. Fingers gripping the back of Sherlock’s neck, John brought their mouths together, kissing with hard, insistent need. Sherlock quivered at the heat of John’s hand on his skin, at the warmth that spread through his body, settling low as heavy, demanding arousal in his stomach. Pushing a leg between Sherlock’s, John pressed him harder into the bullet-marked wall, and Sherlock let his mouth fall open. He welcomed John’s enthusiastic tongue, moaning his consent against John's dry lips.

Their kisses slowed and gentled from the ravenous pace. Sherlock tentatively flicked his tongue over John's bottom lip, curious. He shivered when John immediately parted for him, and he traced the curve of John's upper lip, the hard edge of his teeth. The sensations made him groan and sigh, and John growled, slipping his hands up to grip Sherlock's head, his curls. The gentleness didn't last as Sherlock nipped and sucked at John's tongue, making him curse, and John gripped his fingers tight in the hair curling at the nape of Sherlock's neck. He tugged, the gesture borderline painful before slipping into pleasure. Gasping, Sherlock parted his legs and planted his feet. John took the cue and moved closer, pressing into Sherlock with his arousal hot and demanding against Sherlock's thigh.

"Fuck," John whimpered, his voice rough, his eyes nearly black when he leaned his head back. He studied Sherlock's face and gripped his hips with rough hands, staring at him with his dark, lidded eyes. “Fuck, I _want _you,” he panted, the words shifting upward in a needy gasp when their bodies ground together. Sherlock nodded in a desperate little jerk. John's mouth muffled his answering whine with a rough, needy kiss. Wrapping his arms tight around Sherlock's waist, John pulled him to the ground. They came together in a tangle of eager limbs, grabbing and panting while John tugged Sherlock into his lap, hands stroking over Sherlock's sides. "God, yeah," John hissed when Sherlock wrapped his legs tight around John’s waist. "Yeah, you feel so good, oh, god, Sherlock..." Sherlock's lashes fluttered when he felt John's erection grinding into him, pleasurable even through the thick fabric of their gear. John mouthed hungrily over his jawline and down his neck, making Sherlock tilt his head back, eyes sliding shut with ecstasy.

"Ah, yes, John..." His words faded into a whimper at the brush of teeth over his throat, the reaction driving John into a frenzy of need. His hands fumbled over Sherlock's body, tugging at velcro and scrabbling at pockets, desperate for skin-on-skin contact. Sherlock struggled to help between rocking himself in John's lap, making them both moan.

They tore at one another. Hands grabbed at straps and buckles until John ripped open Sherlock’s flak jacket and pushed it off his shoulders with impatient fingers. His actions demanded even as he kissed him with raw urgency. Sherlock wriggled and groaned into John's mouth, shrugging the jacket the rest of the way off and letting it fall beneath him. He attacked John’s belt, weighed down with attachments and loaded packs, fighting to get it open as his fingers shook. Once he had it undone and removed, John quickly kicked his bottoms off. They shed the rest of their clothes quickly, leaving a pile of heavy gear heaped beside their sweat-dampened underclothes.

With nothing between them but skin, they both paused to take each other in. Sherlock's chest rose and fell with his quick breathing as he wondered what John saw. Did he think Sherlock too skinny? Find him strange, with all his long, gawky limbs and too-pale skin? He shivered with a flash of insecurity, and the movement jostled his ID tags. Moonlight slipped through the holes in the roof, setting silvery fire through John's hair. John reached out with an imperceptible expression and caught the disks in his fingers, staring at them. His gaze was intense, too much for Sherlock not to squirm beneath. Seeking distraction from John's scrutiny, he studied John's body.

He was compact but strong, a thick layer of muscle turning his figure into something solid and formidable. Whenever John moved, the powerful lines of his thighs flexed, stretching down into shapely calves. Sherlock dragged his eyes from his feet upward, lingering on the golden dusting of hair over John's legs, pale against tanned skin. He studied the dip of John's hips as John squatted before him, gaze lingering on the darker, coarser patch of hair between his thighs, and the thick, erect cock jutting up toward his belly. As if sensing his scrutiny, John's erection twitched, the tip smearing precum against the curve of his iliac crest. Sherlock felt his face flush at the sight, his breathing quickening with desire, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He wanted to taste John, the salty musk of him, the soft-over-hard skin of his pert cock. 

Struggling to breathe, Sherlock tore his eyes away and moved his gaze higher, taking in John's tight stomach, flexed abdominals, and the pale hair on his chest. It was sparse but visible, fading into shadows under his arms. He took in John's toned, muscled arms, his flexing biceps and broad shoulders and the tendons standing out in his neck before finally looking him in the face. 

John stared back at him, his eyes wide and dark, eyelids at half-mast with a deep flush infusing his cheeks. He looked ravenous, his gaze darting over Sherlock's body with something like insatiable hunger blended with awe. Before Sherlock could process the expression, John used his grip on Sherlock's ID tags to tug him closer. His breath warmed the edge of Sherlock's jaw, moved lower and sucked hard on the skin just below the hollow of his throat. "God, Sherlock," he growled, nipping and licking and pressing kisses over Sherlock's shoulder. As Sherlock mewled and went pliant at the onslaught, John shifted forward and pressed him down onto Sherlock's discarded jacket. Flicking his tongue over Sherlock’s collarbones, John shivered and skated a hand down Sherlock's chest. "Fuck, how are you... how?" His voice broke off, and Sherlock braced for cruelty until John kissed him, licking into his mouth with desperation, groaning against this lips, “Fuck, Sherlock, you’re _gorgeous_."

Stiffening with surprise, Sherlock blinked. His mind went offline, and a small furrow creased the skin between his brows as he processed John's words. Never, _never_, had anyone called Sherlock gorgeous. Attractive, sure. Maybe even beautiful, but in the way that strange, unique creatures were considered beautiful. But never _gorgeous, _not with his build and sharp features. John seemed to notice his stillness finally, and he stopped ravishing Sherlock's neck and chest to look up. Catching the expression on Sherlock's face, he propped himself on one hand and leaned over him.

"Hey," he said quietly, stroking his fingers over Sherlock's cheek. "You okay?"

Sherlock shivered at the gentle touch and blinked, sucking in a breath as his mind clicked back online. He stared up at John, who looked down at him with a bemused expression, concern flickering in his dark eyes. "Yes," Sherlock managed, his voice a croak. "I'm okay." He cleared his throat, forcing away the roughness as he reached up to cover John's hand with his, pressing it to his cheek. "Better than okay."

A smile flickered over John's face, banishing the worry. "You sure?"

Sherlock nodded, turning his head to nuzzle into John's palm. "Completely." He peeked at John from the corners of his eyes, admitting, "No one has ever said that to me."

Eyebrows shooting up, John blinked. "No one's ever told you that you're gorgeous?" At Sherlock's hesitant nod, John breathed a light chuckle and shook his head. "I find that hard to believe. Clearly, they're all idiots."

A tenuous little smile touched upon Sherlock's lips. "If you say so," he said dubiously. John's features hardened with hunger, and he leaned over Sherlock, kissing him hard.

"I _do_ say so," he growled, the rough, ragged quality of his tone drawing goosebumps over Sherlock's skin. He whimpered, cock twitching and leaking liberally on his stomach as John breathed praises against his throat, his voice thick with longing when he whispered, "You stunning, _perfect_ beauty, I want to taste every inch of you." He groaned and lathed his tongue over Sherlock's nipples, one then the other, making Sherlock's toes curl.

Overwhelmed and ablaze with need, Sherlock dug his fingers into short hair and pulled John's mouth back to his. The kiss was starving, intense and greedy, threatening to consume. John bit his lip, and Sherlock gasped, feeling his cock twitch again as heat rippled through his body. He was so hard that it hurt, and he let out a low whine as their hips slotted together, bringing them against one another. In any other situation, he would have felt embarrassed for making such a sound, a sign of lacking control. But with John hot and desirous against him, Sherlock couldn’t help it. John curled a hand over the jut of Sherlock's hip, and he whined again, John shushing him quietly.

"Shh, baby," he breathed, stroking two fingers down the dip of Sherlock's throat, over his chest and into the valley of his navel. "Shhh, we have to be quiet, though I'd love to hear you." Pressing a feather-light kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth, John whispered, "Can you be quiet for me, beautiful?" Sherlock nodded, releasing an unsteady, shivery breath in response. He wiggled beneath John, teeth pressing hard into his bottom lip when their cocks dragged together. He clenched his jaw, swallowing back a moan.

Propping himself up with his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head, John stared down at him with swollen lips and a flush high upon his cheeks. As he gazed back, Sherlock thought John looked supernatural, dazzlingly handsome, and lost himself in the blue depths of John’s eyes. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you, just like this,” John admitted in a low, rough voice. Sherlock smiled slowly, pleasantly surprised by the confession.

“I might,” he breathed, reaching up to drift the tips of his fingers along John’s jaw. John's eyes slid closed, and he tilted his head into Sherlock’s palm with a rough sigh. "I wanted you, too, John," Sherlock added, the words strained, ragged. "Right from the start, I've wanted you." He drew John's face back down to his, and their lips moved together gently, an edge of wonder to the kiss. John hummed into Sherlock's mouth, lowering himself until they were skin to skin, and Sherlock could feel every inch of John's sweat-slick body against his. The kiss deepened, desire growing hot and heavy want between them as Sherlock pushed his hips up, bringing his cock alongside John’s. The contact made them both groan, the sound muffled by each other's lips. They ground against one another, sharing breath and sighs and aching need. 

Tugging and releasing Sherlock's upper lip, John abruptly broke away to push his ID tags around until they hung over his shoulder. He leaned down again and pressed light, insistent kisses over Sherlock’s neck before he moved down his chest and over his stomach. He fastened his lips on the crest of Sherlock’s hip, coaxing a bruise from the pale skin with his sucking mouth.

“Oh _god,_ John—” Sherlock's words broke off in a sharp breath as John moved lower, stealing away his air. His beard scraped rough against the inside of Sherlock’s thighs, then John drew his tongue along the length of Sherlock's cock and took him in his mouth with hollowed cheeks. Sherlock’s hips jerked upwards, and he let out a sound caught between a gasp and a high, breathless moan, his back arching. He shoved his fist against his mouth, sinking his teeth into the knuckles to keep silent. His whimpers caught in his throat, soft, desperate sounds breaking off with every attempt for air.

John’s mouth and lips enveloped him with exquisitely wet, hot sensations. He sucked and licked, teased and traced from root to tip, made Sherlock tremble and tangle his fingers in John's short, sandy hair. Sherlock's breathing stuttered, his eyes wide and stunned as he felt pressure building at the base of his spine. He wasn't going to last long, body oversensitized by weeks of longing. When John pulled back, suckled at his leaking slit and plunged back down, Sherlock's hips shot upward as his back arched off the ground.

“Fuck... _fuck_, I’m... John, I'm...” Sherlock gasped, writhing. He tried to warn him, plucking with weak, shaking hands at John's short hair. "I'm gonna... I'm gonna... _fuck, John!" _Despite his warning, John just smiled and hummed deep in his throat, gripping Sherlock’s hips and swallowing him down as he came. His climax was like an eruption, and he writhed as it tore through him. His thighs shook, clamping tightly around John's shoulders, uncontrollable. His fingers tensed and tightened in John's hair, both hands gripping his skull, making Sherlock bite into bottom lip until it turned white to keep from shouting. 

He finally collapsed, soft whines interrupting his heavy panting as his body shivered through comedown aftershock. Dimly, he was aware of John's tongue lapping at the head of his softening cock, catching the last few drops of his release, and Sherlock shuddered in response. He blinked dazedly up at John as he sat back, wiping a hand over his smirking mouth. 

“John,” Sherlock wheezed, feeling shattered and thoroughly debauched. _"John." _Sweat trickled down his face and over his neck, and he sucked in a hard breath, trying to slow his racing heart. He tried to sit up, fumbled and finally found his balance. Propped on one arm, Sherlock grabbed and tugged John’s face to his, kissing him long and hard. John tasted like salt and desert air, like Sherlock's cum, and the last made Sherlock groan. Still shaky, he wrapped his hand around John’s cock, stroking root to tip with long, jerky pulls. He caressed the sensitive end with his thumb, and John quivered, grabbing onto Sherlock and nuzzling into his shoulder.

He made little moaning sounds against Sherlock's skin, sighing out, "Yes, Sherlock, yes, oh, oh, _yes," _as his breathing quickened. Pressing a kiss to John's jaw, Sherlock mouthed over his neck, nipping lightly at goosebump-dotted skin. A hand came up and gripped his nape, fingers scratching up into curls as John tensed. "Oh, god," John panted, tugging at his handful of hair. Sherlock grunted and quickened his pace, sucking John's earlobe into his mouth to the chorus of John's ragged, _oh, oh, oh_ noises. Sherlock sighed and nibbled at the hollow beneath John's jaw, murmuring gentle encouragement as John's cock swelled. Turning his head, John pressed his face into Sherlock's hair and spilled over Sherlock’s pumping hand with a muffled gasp.

His entire body went rigid, tendons standing out in his neck as Sherlock coaxed him through the last pulses, one hand smoothing over John's spine, the other squeezing every last drop of cum from his twitching cock.

Finally spent, John tipped forward with a long groan. Pinning Sherlock onto his back on the ground, John sprawled heavily against his chest, his mouth open as he sucked in needed air. Sherlock felt John’s racing pulse against his sternum as he kissed sweat and sand off John's brow. He received a soft hum in response, and they lay still for what felt like an endless moment, twined together. Even with night falling, the day's oppressive heat lingered, and sweat left their skin sticky and slick.

With his face tucked into John's neck, Sherlock waited for his breathing and heart to slow. John's fingers stroked idly over his shoulder, his throat and into his hair. He carded through the damp curls with slow, tender motions, sighing a deep, content breath over Sherlock's skin. "So good," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the underside of Sherlock's jaw. "That was _so good,_ just how I imagined."

Sherlock made a soft sound of agreement, curling his body around John and holding him close. When John finally sat up, he dropped a light kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth, his expression tender. Pulling on his pants and the bottoms of his combat gear, leaving his chest bare, he dug a wad of tissues from his pack and handed them to Sherlock. Cleaning his hands, Sherlock tugged on his pants and undershirt. Movements lagging with endorphins, they unrolled their sleeping bags and slipped inside, curling into one another. Sherlock wriggled close and nuzzled his face into John’s neck with a contented sigh. His watch was in an hour and a half, and he dropped into a dead sleep instantly, John’s soft breathing lulling him into dreamless darkness.

* * *

He woke instantly when his watch alarm went off, blinking up at the crumbling roof, momentarily confused by the warm body pressed up against him. Rolling his head to the side, Sherlock looked into John’s face, inches from his. Also awake, John tilted his chin up and pressed his warm lips to Sherlock’s. The kiss, slow and achingly tender, made Sherlock never want to move again. But his alarm beeped resolutely, and he sighed, pulling away with apparent reluctance. John released him with a huff, rolling onto his back with his arms folded beneath his head. He watched Sherlock pull on his gear and shoulder his rifle, shifting it to hang from his chest. A frown passed over John's face, replacing his appreciative eyes.

“Sherlock.” His sharp voice made Sherlock pause. Looking up from buckling his gear, he tilted his head in silent inquiry as John said, “Don’t trust him. Moran. Don’t trust him, and don't turn your back on him.”

Sherlock nodded, buckling the last bit of his armour closed. “I won’t,” he promised and began to turn away, but John’s hand shot out and caught the back of his trousers. Sherlock stopped and looked down. John’s eyes almost looked feverish as he stared up at him from the ground.

“I mean it," he insisted, gaze sharp as he met Sherlock's eyes. "You _have to_ come back to me, okay?” John sounded intense, fervent, his words tight with tension. “Do you understand? You _have __ to. _I can't lose you when I've only just found you."

Taken-aback by his intensity, Sherlock swallowed loudly and nodded. "I will." He patted the rifle stock of his rifle, though John appeared unconvinced. “Don’t worry, John." His voice gentled at the uncertainty in John's eyes as he vowed, "I’ll always come back to you.”

* * *

Outside the makeshift room, the air was just as oppressively hot as inside, if not more. Wiping the sweat off his brow that sprang up immediately, Sherlock looked around, spotting Moran standing just past the Rover. Adjusting the rifle over his chest with nervous hands, he made his way towards him, fingers resting tense on the strap. John’s words echoed in his head, making his heart race.

_Don’t trust him, and don’t turn your back on him. _

Sherlock shook his head and forced a passive smile when he reached Moran's side. “Evening,” he greeted casually, rocking on his heels. Staring up at the sky, Moran blew a plume of smoke before finally shifting his eyes sideways to Sherlock.

“Yup," he replied, his voice flat and uninterested, "it sure is." They stood in mutual quiet until Sherlock began to fidget with the strap of his rifle. Moran turned fully toward him and squinted, one eyebrow cocked. “Nervous?” Sherlock shook his head and bit into his lip, staring out into the dark.

“No,” he said slowly, forcing his hands to settle back at his sides despite the nerves jittering through him. He felt keyed-up, thanks to John's tense warnings, and struggled with the rush of adrenaline coursing through his body. “Just... you know, bored.”

Moran inclined his head in a slow nod. “I always know," he said, and Sherlock frowned at the cryptic response. The silence stretched out between them again until Moran broke it, stating, “I’m not going to say anything, by the way.” Moran flexed his fingers, looking detached as he turned his gaze back to Sherlock, who blinked at his non-sequitur. “About you and Watson,” Moran clarified.

Though he noted the absence of John’s title, Sherlock pushed the thought aside in favour of asking, “Why?” John’s warnings echoed in his ears, and he narrowed his eyes, suspicious.

Moran shrugged and tipped ashes from the end of his cigarette, looking back at the sky. “I guess I just don’t fucking care,” he replied before he grinned, still looking upwards. “Just leave me the fuck alone, and you can keep your precious Captain.” The smile fell from his face as quickly as it had come, and he sighed, “It’s too bloody quiet.”

Staring at him, perturbed by the display of different emotions, Sherlock shifted his feet in the sand and looked away. Still unsettled, he angled his shoulders toward Moran. He was taking John’s advice, refusing to turn his back on Sebastian.

The rest of their shift passed uneventfully, though Sherlock struggled with his confused wariness throughout. When Moran’s watch blared a series of rapid beeps, he abruptly turned and walked away, disappearing into the dark and leaving Sherlock behind without a word. Sherlock stared after him, his brow furrowed until Moriarty appeared shortly after from the other direction. He nodded to Sherlock, and they both turned as footsteps approached, muffled by sand. Sherlock tensed with his hand on the rifle, then John emerged from the darkness, his short hair mussed by sleep. His eyes shifted over Sherlock quickly, brightening with relief when they reached his face. They shared a nod, John's lips parting around a soft sigh as the tension visibly eased from his shoulders.

“See you in two hours,” Sherlock said to both men, though his eyes never strayed from John’s. Moriarty snorted, but John smiled and ignored him, making warmth flood through Sherlock's chest.

"Two hours," John agreed, his eyes dark as they flitted over Sherlock's body. Sherlock felt the warmth swell and flash into an inferno, and he coughed to cover the soft groan that rose in his throat before turning away. He caught John's knowing smirk from the edge of his gaze and hurried away. He walked back to the building where they had slept mere hours ago in a daze, hands restless at his sides.

Standing over John's neatly-rolled sleeping bag and pack, Sherlock stared at the scuffed earth. Here, they had finally come together and found sanity in one another. Released their mutual, pent-up longing and unspoken need with shared breath and desperate kisses.

Sherlock tugged off his jacket and sank to his knees. He left his armour on underneath. Despite the discomfort, Sherlock wanted to be ready for action, should they be ambushed. Curling up in his sleeping bag, he pressed his face into John’s, breathing deeply. The bedroll still smelled of John, and Sherlock luxuriated in his scent as it filled his lungs. He fell asleep with the smell in his nose, and the muscle memory of John’s body pressed to his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops, smut


	6. deliberate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg wrestles with his responsibilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Army slang used in this chapter:  
**Interview Without Coffee** – scolding by a senior officer
> 
> Sorry that it's a short chapter, but it's a chapter.

As the night faded into the morning, the 6-man patrol stirred beneath the already unbearably hot rise of the sun. While the others moved about in their morning ablutions, Greg leaned against the Rover's warming hood, staring at the maps before him. His eyes burned, gritty with sand and lack of sleep, and he blinked them once, twice, hard, trying to see straight.

The unexpected firefight had thrown off their reconnaissance completely. It was already a challenge to gain intel of an enemy that dealt in guerilla war and terror, and nigh impossible when their presence in the area was announced by blazing guns. 

Greg sighed and scrubbed at his face with a short-nailed hand. A light touch at his elbow made him look up to find Mycroft beside him, a speckled tin mug of coffee held out in offering. Taking it, Greg sipped at the lukewarm, watery liquid, pulling a face at the garbage brew, but directing a smile to the man who had brought it.

“Thanks,” he said, sounding grateful and meaning it. He could always, always depend on Mycroft, his second-in-command. The man’s constant presence brought a calmness to his mind that Greg knew he wouldn’t find anywhere else. Their dynamic was comfortable, familiar, easy and effortless. Things would be very different, here in the desert, without Mycroft as his anchor.

Inclining his head in silent acknowledgement, Mycroft leaned against the front of the vehicle, arms folded across his chest as he looked over the small cluster of buildings. Pressing his back to the grill, Lestrade turned and followed his gaze, taking in his men's activities.

John and Sherlock sat together, Sherlock carefully cleaning and rebandaging the wound on John's neck. Greg squinted at them, noting a new air of ease between the two that hadn't been present the day before. Both had been tense and keyed-up, and the sudden absence of that tension was evident. He wondered if they had been fighting, caught in a disagreement, and was pleased that it seemed they had worked it out. It was good to see Sherlock settling in at last. He was an outsider, a bit of a loner, something that could make or break a squad.

In contrast, Captain Watson was a good man, and Greg felt grateful that John seemed to have taken Sherlock under his wing. With any luck, the new friendship would ease some of the tension Greg often saw ticking at the edges of Mycroft's mouth whenever he looked at his younger brother. Glancing at him, Greg turned his attention to the two others in his patrol, his own mouth hardening.

Moriarty leaned against a wall near John and Sherlock, absently picking at a boiled rations pack. He looked bored, his dark eyes only half-open. Moran sat off to the side and by himself, smoking a cigarette with a small pile of ashes at his feet as he organized his pack. His expression was blank and composed.

“They’re good men,” Greg noted before snorting as Moriarty threw the empty ration pack away from him with disgust. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“Are you sure about that, Gregory?" he sighed. "After all, my brother _i__s_ one of them.” His voice was heavy with disdain, and Greg shrugged.

“Give him a chance, Myc," Greg urged gently. "I know he hasn't been the easiest of siblings, but that doesn't mean he won't change." He nudged Mycroft's shoulder with light playfulness. "He could surprise you." Turning to Mycroft, Greg received an eye roll for his pains.

“The only way Sherlock ever surprises me is by being a massive disappointment.” The words were harsh, but as Mycroft turned toward Greg, his face softened, and he reached out to brush sand away from Greg's shoulder. Slowly, his expression grew sombre, and his eyes hardened. “What’s next? Today, we rest. And tomorrow…?” Mycroft's words trailed off, his brows rising expectantly.

"Don't remind me," Greg grumbled and turned back to the map open behind them. “This is where the active fighting is." He pointed to the south end of the Helmand province, where a large red circle noted the majority of the southern tip of the region. “And here we are.” He slid his finger north and to the left. “There’s the river, and, according to this, some old roads.” He leaned back, scratching idly at his cheek, his brow creasing. “I think we should check out the river, see if it’s being used for transport.” Shaking his head, Greg sighed, letting his eyes slide shut in a moment of bone-deep exhaustion. “Sometimes it feels like we’ve been in this desert for a lifetime.” He opened his eyes to find Mycroft looking into the distance before he raised a hand, setting it on Greg's arm with gentle pressure.

Greg allowed himself to briefly lean into the comfort, welcoming the gesture until Mycroft dropped his hand and pointed to the map, asking, "And these hills?” He traced the shapes on the paper as Greg bent to look closer.

“I noticed those as well," he said, nodding, his eyes narrowed. "I think we covered them in an earlier patrol, a few months back. But they might be worth checking out again.” Sighing, Greg straightened, hooking his thumbs into his belt. “Means we’d have to split the team up.” He paused, brow furrowed. “Or save it for the next recon patrol.” They both turned, looking at the group again. Moran was nowhere to be seen, and Moriarty was stretched out on his back with open eyes, staring at the sky. Sherlock appeared asleep, with John writing in a notebook at his side, tongue caught between his teeth in a thoughtful expression. Greg sighed again and rubbed his face as Mycroft let out a frustrated breath.

“I’m not sure they’d survive if we split them up," Mycroft snapped, his expression dour, "given how they all seem to share_ one brain cell!” _The last emerged as a shout, and he advanced upon the hapless men. Moriarty sprang to his feet, and Sherlock jolted awake, falling over sideways with one hand instinctively outstretched towards his rifle. John laughed next to him and patted Sherlock's leg, telling him to put it away.

As Mycroft tore into the three men, Sebastian slunk back to the group from around a corner, an amused twist to his lips. Watching the dressing-down, Greg shook his head and let out a long, low breath. He turned his back on the display, looking at the map again. With an unpleasant weight on his shoulders, he stared at the southern tip of the province, with its dark red circle, and frowned.

* * *

In the afternoon, the men sulked from their interviews without coffee, and Greg found himself circling back to the issue of directing their resources. Mycroft tried to draw his attention through various attempts at conversation, but the patrol commander, in all his stubbornness, would not be distracted. Greg poured over maps and reports with the rigidity that had brought him to his current ranking position. His tenacity was unshakeable. Mycroft eventually gave up, disappearing to who-knew-where. Greg wasn't concerned, trusting the second-in-command to direct his attentions to something constructive. The others, he wasn't so sure of.

Looking up to blink his eyes clear of the routes and map legends burned into his eyes, Greg realized he had not seen Sherlock or John in a while. He turned to search the area. Moran counted clips a few meters away, and Moriarty sat near him, throwing small rocks at larger rocks in between taking inventory of their rations. Both were clearly bored and hot, but more or less focused on their tasks—less, in Moriarty’s case.

Greg grimaced and wondered where the other two men—three if he counted Mycroft—were. Tapping a finger to his chin, he realized it was unlike Watson to be absent. The thought made him reconsider his earlier gratitude for the friendship Greg had spotted between the captain and Sherlock. It made him wonder if the younger Holmes was a bad influence and if there wasn't some merit to Mycroft's misgivings about his brother. 

Just as his thoughts began to spiral, Mycroft stepped into view. There was an unlit cigarette between the fingers of his right hand, and a small frown creasing his face.

“Hey,” Greg called, waving his second-in-command toward him, Mycroft raising his brows inquisitively as he approached. “Have you seen your brother and Captain Watson?”

Mycroft’s eyes shifted away, and he nodded. Bringing the cigarette to his mouth, he lit the end with a match and shook the flame out. “Yes. They are scouting the buildings for anything that might have been left behind.” He gestured at the falling-down structures before him. “They volunteered.” His eyes settled on Moran and Moriarty, still bent over their work. Moriarty was no longer wasting time with his game of aim and toss under the scrutiny of two superiors.

Greg nodded as well, but he felt strangely unsettled, his anxiety only solidifying with Mycroft's casual words. He couldn’t pin down the reason for his discomfort but decided to let it go as he took in Mycroft's utter lack of concern. Instead, like a hamster upon its wheel, Greg's mind returned to his earlier dilemma, and he scowled over the maps once more.

“I wish I knew what I was looking for,” he mumbled, sounding heavy with his frustration. Mycroft sighed.

“Gregory, you need to rest,” he quietly insisted, lowering his voice as he moved closer, the words just for Greg. “They cannot see you falter.” Greg looked up from the map and met Mycroft's eyes before closing his own and hanging his head. Slowly, he nodded, his earlier weariness rushing back in. Mycroft patted him on the shoulder, and Greg tilted his face up to the sky, the sun blazing against his skin.

Mycroft was right. They could not see him falter. 


	7. pinprick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reflects on his relationship with Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter was so long in coming, and so short. I hit a massive block, and it took talking the plot out with a tumblr friend to work it out. also, I've started another long fic that I'm planning to post once completed (which likely won't be for a while) and it took me away from this one for a few days. with this chapter out of the way, I can start moving the plot forward more and hopefully (once my final papers are finished for my degree) I will be posting more often again!

Wandering through empty buildings, there was an unspoken warmth between Sherlock and John, connecting them with unseen tethers. Whenever John raised his head, Sherlock would already be looking over at him, and a smile would steal over John’s lips. When their hands brushed, it took powerful restraint on John’s part not to link their fingers together and pull Sherlock close.

The silence stretched out as they searched through the rubble and falling-down walls, the sun blazing low in the sky overhead. Sherlock found an old water jug, and John held out a crate, adding it to their other discoveries, which consisted of a pair of shoes, an old sleeping bag, and a string of beads.

They walked in companionable quiet, and John was struck by how neither felt the need to fill the silence with words. The space between them was comfortable and relaxed, strangely familiar. Considering he and Sherlock had barely known one another for more than three months, John felt a stronger pull than seemed natural. If he thought about it, Sherlock was still somewhat of a mystery. They didn't _really _know each other, yet they had been intimate, were connected in a way John hadn't felt with anyone before, save maybe once. And even that hadn't been like this, his feelings for Sherlock far more profound, far more encompassing.

Eyes on the ground as they walked, John wondered at the intensity of their relationship, so sudden that it should feel unsettling. Instead, he felt steady, accepted. It was irrational, but he instinctively knew he could be entirely himself with Sherlock, someone who, rationally, was still a stranger.

John felt like he had been waiting for Sherlock all along. Like their meeting was an inevitability, Sherlock appearing in his life to fill a gap John hadn’t even been aware of until it was no longer empty. The thought was both thrilling and terrifying, making John wonder what would happen if Sherlock disappeared. If he left or was sent away. Or, God forbid, if John lost him. They were, after all, in a warzone. It wasn't impossible or irrational to think of death, of loss, when each day could be your last. The stinging in the wound on his neck was a powerful reminder that survival was not guaranteed, not anywhere, and certainly not here in the desert. 

If he lost Sherlock, could John survive without that missing piece, now that he knew it existed? Or would that previously unidentified gap in his life tear him apart, devour him whole?

A surge of protectiveness rose inside his chest, and John hoped he would never have to find out the answer to his questions. His breathing quickened, hands tightening around the crate in his arms.

“John? Are you okay?”

Shaken from his thoughts by Sherlock’s uncertain voice, John blinked. He turned his head to meet Sherlock's questioning eyes, seeing concern and warmth, a world of something unspoken and shown only to him.

Twisting, he dropped the crate on the ground. It clattered against small rocks and debris, ignored as John reached for Sherlock and pulled him into his arms. With his face pressed to Sherlock’s neck, John heard Sherlock's startled, bemused huff.

“John?” His name was repeated, spoken in a deeper, gentler voice. Sherlock's chest rumbled beneath his ear, the sensation making John feel, oddly, at home.

“I’m fine,” John murmured, both reassuring Sherlock and explaining his state of being. "I'm okay." And he was, he felt fine, felt good. John felt extraordinary with Sherlock in his arms, their bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces despite the height difference. 

Sherlock huffed again, sighing, "Good. That's good. I'm glad." His voice was soft, a little hesitant, and endlessly endearing in John's ears. It made him bold, Sherlock's awkward sensitivity, and John raised his head to meet his eyes again. Sherlock looked back at him, his gaze open and curious.

John leaned back and lifted his hand to Sherlock’s chin, tilting his head down to brush their lips together. Sherlock responded by softening in John’s arms, immediately pliable. He wrapped his hands around John’s back, pulling him closer as his lips parted, Sherlock's mouth opening to John’s warm breath and seeking tongue.

A tightness caught in his throat, John nipped at Sherlock’s bottom lip, and Sherlock shivered and moaned, making John squeeze him tighter to his chest. He wanted them to be closer, skin on skin, made into one entity. It was impossible, and he instead tangled his fingers in sweaty curls, worshipping Sherlock’s face with light kisses.

“I will always keep you safe," John murmured. He was caught up in the swell of the moment, adoration and dopamine flooding through the synaptic pathways of his brain, breeding devotion in the cellular makeup of his body.

Sherlock snorted, pushing his face against John’s to soften the harsh sound. “That’s a bold promise to make in a war zone.” His tone was light and teasing, and there was a gentle edge to the words.

Cupping Sherlock’s face in his hands, John leaned back and looked into his eyes again. “Always,” he repeated fervently. "I won't let anything happen to you." Lips brushing over Sherlock's cheek, he whispered, "You said you'd always come back to me, and I intend to make sure you can."

A quiet sigh met his words before Sherlock was pressing closer, his hands gripping the front of John's flak jacket, pulling him up to his mouth. John kissed Sherlock slowly, gently, imparting the validity of his vow into the gesture until Sherlock melted against him, and John had to stop lest things progress beyond simple kissing. His body ached with arousal, and he pushed it aside in favour of focusing on communicating his conviction.

"Always, Sherlock," he said again, leaning back to press their foreheads together. "I promise."

* * *

The afternoon found them back with the rest of the team, all six men bent over maps with Lestrade as he talked them through his plan for two separate recon missions.

“First, we’ll head to the Helmand River," he said, their eyes following his finger as it skated over the paper. "I want to know if it’s being used by insurgents." Looking up to ensure he still had their attention, Lestrade nodded and tapped the sheet again. "After we return to base, we'll regroup and head back out, moving into this area." He traced the mountain range with a frown. "It’s a large spread, and not all of it is terrain the Rover can handle. So we’ll have to split up. We'll do three with the Rover, three on foot. I don’t expect it to be ‘hot’ in the area, but we’ll go prepared in case things heat up.” Pausing, Lestrade rubbed at his jaw and blew air out in a loud gust as he shook his head. “I feel like I’m missing something, and I wish I could figure out what it was.” His voice trailed off until it sounded like he was speaking to himself.

Struck by the uncertainty in their commander's words, John frowned as well. His eyes drifted, shifting away from the map until they were drawn to Sherlock, standing beside Mycroft. As if feeling John’s eyes on him, Sherlock looked up with curiousity, a tentative smile playing at the edges of his lips. They shared a look until John dropped his gaze back to the map, an unsettling sensation of foreboding rising in his stomach as Lestrade’s words echoed in his ears.

_ I feel like I’m missing something, and I wish I could figure out what it was. _

* * *

A sandy breeze blowing through his hair, John perched on the Rover's hood and watched the sun begin its slow descent. Sherlock sat beside him with his long legs folded toward his body, toying with an unlit cigarette. He was flicking it back and forth between his fingers, his eyes unfocused, his expression perturbed.

“Those things'll kill you,” John said, grinning when the corner of Sherlock’s mouth closest to him twitched up in a crooked half-smile.

“Not as fast as a gun,” Sherlock quipped. He stopped fiddling and held the cigarette between his lips, but made no move to light it. John’s face tensed at the words, and he didn’t reply, watching the sun arc down from the sky to the earth as it neared the lower quarter of its descent. Sherlock frowned for a moment, watching the sunset before letting out a small sigh and flicking the unlit smoke away into the sand. “You just don’t want me to taste like an ashtray when you kiss me,” he grumbled, coaxing a reluctant chuckle from John’s lips.

John looked over at him, letting the affection humming inside him show in his face. "You're not wrong," he admitted, his eyes flickering past Sherlock and narrowing as Moriarty emerged from the dark. "Hi, Jim," he said, receiving a nod as Moriarity joined them, leaning his hip against a dusty headlight.

“Evening." He looked out over the darkening sands, tapping his fingers against the sun-faded paint of the Rover. “I still feel like I’m in an oven, even when that bloody sun goes down,” he sighed, rolling his head back to stare up into the darkening sky.

Sherlock snorted rudely. “What else did you expect from the desert? Did you think it would be cold? Surely, you're not that moronic.” Moriarty huffed, the sound shifting into another massive sigh. 

“Shut up, Holmes. I don't need your sass,” he said, his tone droll. To John's surprise, Sherlock elbowed him, and Moriarty feigned injury, muttering, "Ow." John steeled himself for an overreaction, for a far more aggressive response. But Moriarty smiled instead, his eyes glittering as he nudged Sherlock's knee with his palm. "Sod off, you spindly bastard."

Sherlock tilted his head back with a sharp grin, his tone a challenge as he shot back, "It's amusing, you thinking you can make me."

"I'll snap you like a stick, skinny boy," Moriarty mused, his own smile widening to an admiring smirk. Sherlock scoffed, flicking sand off the Rover's hood in Jim's direction.

"Just try it."

Moriarty's expression turned feral as his voice dropped, turning rough, almost husky. "Anytime."

John watched the playful exchange nervously, remembering how Moriarty had taunted them mere days ago. Compared to his relaxed response now, Sherlock’s reaction had been very different then. Squinting at the stars as they winked into view, John wondered if the change in his and Sherlock's relationship from theoretical to real had something to do with the difference in Sherlock's interactions with Moriarty. Maybe he felt more confident now, more secure, with everything out in the open between them?

While that almost made sense, John found he still didn’t like the sudden camaraderie between Sherlock and Moriarty. The display left him unsettled, and he didn’t believe it was from jealousy—or not _merely _jealousy. It felt more complicated than that, reminding John that he still didn't really _know _Sherlock. And he knew Moriarty even less. It was easy to forget that Sherlock and Moriarty had deployed together, from the same unit, the same barracks in North Yorkshire. 

Watching them tease one another, a hint of a smile on Sherlock's face, John realized he knew almost nothing of Sherlock’s time before the 4/73. He had been swept away by the force of his feelings, caught up in the rush of it all, and really hadn’t stopped to question any of it. Now, filled with uncertainty, John wondered if he should have.

His voice was casual as he cleared his throat and asked, “What made you want to transfer out here anyway?” John directed the question to Moriarty, but his eyes drifted to Sherlock.

Moriarty waved a lazy hand, rolling his eyes as if his answer was a matter of obviousness. “Oh, you know," he drawled, his eyebrows rising in a _what can you do _expression. "There was a war to be fought, reserve life was bloody dull. Queen and Country and all that bollocks.” His hand flopped back and forth, loose on his wrist. “Glory and glamour, earning honour, proving our mettle, blah blah blah.” 

"Right." John rubbed a hand over his thigh, grimacing at the burn of sore muscles as he tilted his head and looked at Sherlock, waiting for his answer. When it wasn't forthcoming, Sherlock staring into the darkening distance with a tight mouth, John frowned. "Sherlock?" His prod received a startled look, Sherlock seeming to come out of a daze. Wrapping his fingers around his bent knees, John leaned forward. "What about you?"

Sherlock stared at him, his eyes half-hidden in the falling shadows, concealing his expression. He licked his lips nervously, hands twisting together. The actions made John feel uneasy, and when Sherlock spoke, he seemed to choose his words with care.

“Mycroft thought it would be good for me,” he said quietly, his voice soft enough that John had to lean farther forward to catch them as Sherlock added, “Maybe it was.” It sounded like an afterthought, but the words rang with a strange, reluctant truth.

"Yeah?" Sherlock nodded and refused to elaborate, but John noted that he rubbed at his left arm, his expression distant, and his face shuttered.

“Right,” John replied, feeling space suddenly grow and stretch out between them. He couldn’t fathom why, how or what, but something had just changed. The air felt thicker, and he sensed vulnerability in Sherlock that he hadn’t before. Shooting Moriarty a look, John found him picking at the Rover's paint, the skin between his brows creased. He looked pensive, tense and annoyed, and, otherwise, as unreadable as Sherlock.

A faint feeling of suspicion rising, John looked into the sky, thinking and reflecting on the sudden tension in the air. Silent, each lost in their own contemplations, the three men watched the stars overhead.


	8. shark in the water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty remembers his time with Sherlock before deployment.

Moriarty rose with the sun, stepping into the open air with arms raised above his head, pulling his muscles upwards in a back-cracking stretch. He cradled his rifle against his combat gear-clad chest and narrowed dark eyes as the sky lightened.

A light footstep drew his attention, and Moran appeared at his side, flicking ash from a half-gone cigarette. Moriarty squinted, looking Moran over, and cracked his neck with a sound like a gunshot. The edges of Moran’s lips twitched. Blowing smoke into the clear air, his eyes flickered toward Moriarty.

“Think we’ll see some excitement today?” he asked, a hint of dark expectation lingering beneath the words. Moriarty looked steadily back at him and felt something burn deep in his stomach at the unsettling glimmer deep in Moran’s mineral-green eyes. Looking away, he kicked at the sand, shoving his hands into the pockets of his flak jacket.

“Depends what you mean by ‘excitement,'" he said to the ground at his feet. Moran cocked his head back, lips curling into a sharp, almost predatory smile when Moriarty looked up again. The angular jut of his jaw made him look like a carnivore, his bared teeth bringing to mind silent, circling sharks.

“If you stick around, maybe you’ll find out,” Moran replied in a low, rumbling breath. The sound of it made the hairs on the back of Moriarty’s neck stand at attention before he turned his gaze back at the lightening sky. 

"I'll make sure that I do," he said softly, catching Moran's smirk from the corner of his eye.

* * *

An hour later, with all six men seated back in the Rover, moving over the sands at a respectable clip, Moriarty found himself fixated. Seated across from Lestrade and Mycroft, John and Sherlock riding point, Moriarty watched Sebastian from the edge of his vision. Standing at his post behind the mounted gun, Moran perched on the balls of his feet, his eyes wide and barren as he stared out over the sands. His earlier words repeated through Moriarty's head, ricocheting through his skull like echoes in a dark chamber.

_ Think we’ll see some excitement today? _

Moran looked over at Moriarty with a sharp quirk to his mouth. Moriarty glanced away, fixing his eyes on his hands, at his scarred fingers cradling the barrel of his rifle. They appeared steady, simultaneously familiar and alien.

_ If you stick around, maybe you’ll find out. _

If he stuck around? Moriarty ground his teeth together and wished for a smoke, wondering what Moran had meant. The fact of the matter was that Moran unsettled him. He both confused and tempted a sick, dark pull inside Moriarty that he had tried to ignore for much of his life. It made him feel inexorably drawn to Moran in a new, unfamiliar way. It wasn’t attraction, though there was something of that as well, he had to admit. The sensation was like spotting someone across a dark room, and realizing that they were already looking back at you. 

But it was more. It was closer to kinship, though not exactly that. Moriarty sensed in Moran a mirror, reflecting something back to himself that he usually worked to suppress and ignore. That something was darkness, an absence. A reflection of Jim's own empty and screaming madness, which he wondered at in overcast days, pushed back and aside in favour of pretending such ugliness could not exist within himself.

With the wind in his face and sand in his hair, Moriarty watched Moran and observed sickness. Freedom. Camaraderie.

He trailed his fingertips over the cold metal of the rifle slung across his chest. Moriarty stared at the back of Moran’s head as the bombardier scanned the desert, wondering at the thoughts held within the skull.

Captain Watson barked laughter from the front seat, nudging Sherlock with his shoulder. Sherlock remained focused as he drove, a curl of enjoyment playing over his lips. It was a strange expression, out of place on Sherlock's sharp features, a sign of happiness Moriarty had not seen in any of their time together.

In four years, Moriarty had never seen Sherlock so at ease.

Tilting his head back, he looked up into the cloudless sky, the sun blazing against his skin. He thought back to the day he and Sherlock had learned of their impending deployment to the 4/73.

It was a Tuesday. A cold, rainy day at the Marne reserve barracks in North Yorkshire, the two of them fresh from training, their boots dark with mud and their skin wet from the rain. They had hardly reached the door to the barracks, looking forward to warming showers and hot meals, when they’d been called in for the news.

He could still hear the Battery Commander's voice, telling them they would be heading to Afghanistan. Their time at the barracks was ending, the call of war coming for them at last. Moriarty accepted the news of their impending deployment with stoic excitement. Finally, something new, something exciting, a change of pace to the repetitive day-to-day routine of the barracks. 

To his confusion, Sherlock looked like he’d been given marching orders for the firing squad. His face went white, eyes pale gleams over his tight, tense mouth. For a moment, Moriaty had wondered if he might be sick. But Sherlock remained still and stoic, his reaction barely visible save for the shaking of his hands.

Once dismissed, they had made their way to the barracks. Moriarty buzzed with eager energy that he took care not to show on his face, while Sherlock dragged his feet along at his side. There was exhaustion in Sherlock's face and tenseness in his body, a far-off deadened look in his eyes.

"Finally," Moriarty had sighed, unable to suppress his eager grin. "We're finally leaving this shit-hole. No more rain, no more drills, no more fucking puddles to step in." 

Sherlock made a rough sound in his throat, neither agreement nor argument, subsiding into a heavy silence. 

Moriarty, never the expert of Sherlock's emotions, couldn’t fail to note the weight of Sherlock's mood. Though they met on their first day of enlisting, moving up in training and rank together over the past four years, he found it nigh impossible to pin down Sherlock’s thoughts. Despite sharing experiences that would have bonded other men together, Sherlock had always kept Moriarty at arm’s length.

And it irked him, but he had assumed Sherlock was that way with everyone. It seemed possible that he had always been the kind of man who shut others out, moving through the world with sky-high barriers. The rationalization didn't make the reality hurt any less. Sherlock's apathy left Moriarty to nurse both a wounded ego and unrequited feelings for the sharp-tongued, hard-edged man.

Moriarty’s mouth twisted as he glanced at Sherlock now, remembering his theory that Sherlock just didn’t care enough to let anyone past those walls. There had been moments between them, sure—seconds of comfort, fleeting feelings of connection. As the sun had set the night before, it had felt like that again, he and Sherlock on the same rare wavelength. The playfulness of their teasing had reminded Jim of his first impressions of Sherlock, of his feelings that they were similar, cut from the same cloth.

And, still, Sherlock kept him at arm's length. He was the same, always closed-off and distanced. Except here, in the desert, Sherlock was transformed. Here, he sat with a smile on his face and warmth in his eyes, both directed toward John Watson.

It made Moriarty sick. He stared down at his hands and felt anger burn in his stomach. Thinking back to the day of their deployment announcement again, Jim stewed over Sherlock’s withdrawn, despondent energy. He had moved like a man to the gallows, with a pale face and shaking hands. Moriarty had been unable to extract or discover the reasoning behind such a low mood. He finally gave up when Sherlock pinned him against the wall with a dark look, one hand pressing Moriarty’s face into the bricks as he snarled for Jim to _leave him the fuck alone. _

The days leading up to the transfer itself had been darkened by Sherlock’s thunderous mood. Despite Moriarty’s own quiet excitement, the black cloud over Sherlock's head had dampened any expectation of pre-transfer celebrations. Moriarty had drunk his share of bitter alcohol, trying to regain that feeling of nervous anticipation. In contrast, Sherlock had sat, silent and closed off, opposite his bunk whenever they weren’t preparing for the new assignment. With a thousand-yard-stare, he had dug his nails into his left arm, where silvery marks and old scars disfigured the crook of his elbow.

Every time Moriarty asked what his problem was, Sherlock had cussed him out. He heard him on the phone a few times, fighting with a family member by the sound of his furious words. Once, walking back from the mess, Jim had heard Sherlock whisper, "Mummy, please. I'll stop, I promise, this time I'll stop for real. Just... don't let him send me there."

Jim had turned hard on his heel and headed back into the night.

On the day of the transfer, they had loaded into an airbus for a long, uncomfortable flight spent strapped into drop seats. Moriarty remembered feeling jittery and anxious, fighting not to show the emotions, while Sherlock sat in corpse-like silence beside him, his face growing whiter with each passing hour.

Hours later, he had watched the cargo door drop open, the immense heat of the desert sweeping in to pull sweat from his skin where he sat in uncomfortable seats. Walking into the sunlight had burned his eyes. The environment was a stark, blinding contrast to the grey drizzle they’d left behind in North Yorkshire. Jim recalled feeling like a man caught on the edge of change, about to take that first pinnacle step into a very different life. Seconds after having the thought, Sherlock had sucked that expectation out of the very air when he’d stepped out of the airbus with his mouth drawn into a hard line.

Mycroft met them as they exited the plane, leading them to a Jeep-like vehicle painted in dark tan and grey. Sherlock had dropped into the passenger seat beside his brother, stiff and tense as a board, leaving Moriarty to sit in the back. Jim didn't realize they were brothers until they’d sat beside one another. The sharp jut of their chins and the similar slant of their eyes had tipped him off, confirmed when Mycroft introduced himself as Sergeant Holmes.

Looking across the Rover at Mycroft now, Jim recalled thinking there was no love lost between the siblings. It was evident as Sherlock stared past his brother with dead eyes on the drive to the base. He had sat stiffly, digging his nails into the fabric of his combat gear and refusing to answer Mycroft’s questions beyond a nod or headshake.

When they’d pulled up to Camp Bastion, Lestrade and Watson were waiting to meet them. They had met Moran later, in the barracks, finding him with cold eyes and an erratic smirk Moriarty couldn't decipher.

But that first moment, with boots hitting the sand as they dismounted, had changed Sherlock’s dark demeanour. Lestrade shook their hands, casting Mycroft a glance and receiving a minute headshake at Sherlock’s tense response to the greeting, which Moriarty had not missed.

Nor had he missed the way Watson’s eyes locked with Sherlock's. He didn't miss how Sherlock’s dead expression had shifted and cracked, his face transforming into a smile that mirrored Watson's welcoming grin. It had been like night and day, the awakening of Sherlock Holmes. That meeting was a turning point. John's presence lit something in Sherlock, set him aglow like a switch had been flicked, something Moriarty had never succeeded in doing.

Jim remembered feeling steel in his stomach, and a kind of jealous, confused fury. After four years spent training and failing together, falling into mud and listening to drill sergeants scream abuse into their faces, he had never been able to do that. He had never been allowed to step past Sherlock’s barriers. Yet here was Watson, who had demolished those walls, broken through with little more than a handshake and a smile as Sherlock opened for him.

It was infuriating. Glaring out at the endless sand, Moriarty’s lips curled at the memory, and his own misplaced belief that Sherlock was like him—closed off and kind of empty. Uninterested in the world aside from how it might serve him. Watson had shattered that illusion. The captain had reached out with his friendly face and welcoming hands to pluck Sherlock right out of his own carefully constructed fortress. And Sherlock had let him. Without fuss or fight, he had taken John's offering and bared something precious and private that Moriarty had coveted and sought out for years.

Forcing his face to relax, carefully wiping away the tense, angry lines around his mouth, Moriarty pulled air into his lungs with a heavy sigh. Moran glanced over at him, one eyebrow raised, then turned back to scanning the distance. Moriarty’s mouth quirked as he studied him.

Clearly, Jim had been wrong about Sherlock. The man was no more like him than the sky was to the sea. Reflective, but wildly different in so many unforgivable ways. If Sherlock could be taken in by someone as simple as Captain John Watson, fawning over the superior officer like an infatuated schoolgirl, he was nothing like Moriarty.

But Moran… Moran had potential. More than potential. He spoke to that empty shadow in Moriarty’s chest and likely knew the beast's language in Moriarty’s head better than even he did himself. He was darkness, the rush of adrenaline, the call of the untamed wilderness. 

He was intoxication personified.

Tapping itching fingers against his leg, Jim caught Moran's eye again. This time, when they shared a look, Jim grinned.

* * *

They met the river in the afternoon. The sun burned reflections across blue and white waters, the sounds of rushing rapids audible beneath the Rover’s rumbling engine. 

Looking out over the winding stretch of water, Moriarty was briefly blinded by the sun's glare on the surface. Above him, Moran’s lips curled into a sneer, and he jumped into the sand, his feet hitting the ground with a muffled noise of impact. Swinging his rifle to his chest, he gripped the stock and balanced it against his shoulder.

Moriarty followed, stepping off the back of the Rover, Lestrade and Mycroft on his heels. Watson and Sherlock already stood near the front tires, staring towards the river.

“I forgot it was so…” Watson gestured, shaking his head. “So blue.” Beside him, Sherlock nodded and pushed a hand through his hair to dislodge sand from his short curls. Jim rolled his eyes at Watson's pathetic wording.

"Poetic," he sneered, unable to resist baiting the captain. John shot him a look that Moriarty grinned at.

“All right, all right," Mycroft barked, striding forward. “We’re here to work, not for a vacation.” Lestrade sighed at his side, looking across the river at the rolling hills on the other side.

“Let’s spread out and look for any signs of activity,” he instructed, pulling on his helmet and cinching the buckle beneath his chin. “Moran, you’re with Moriarty. Watson, you’re with Mycroft. Sherlock, you’re with me. Okay. Let’s move out.”

Moriarty could almost feel the buzz of eagerness vibrating off the other man when Moran fell into step with him. Snatching a look, he found Moran’s eyes fixed on him, his lips curled into a sharp grin. The sight sent a shiver through Jim's body, the sensation edged with anticipation.

They patrolled along the riverside, their guns cocked and senses on alert. The sun beat down overhead, and the desert was quiet around them. Boredom sunk in, and Moriarty’s feet dragged through sand and grass, Moran puffing cigarette smoke into the air. Their packs were heavy on their backs, and they moved like men underwater, eyes glassy and dry in the hot temperatures.

"What a fucking drag," Moran suddenly snarled. Flicking his cigarette onto the ground, he spat and grimaced, glaring out at the water. "If I'd known war would be such a bloody bore, I wouldn't have enlisted in the first fucking place."

Startled at the outburst, Moriarty smiled nervously. Unable to think of a response, he fell into pace with the other man, Moran a dark, thunderous presence at his side.

They carried on alongside the river for another hour or more, finally calling an end to the fruitless patrol when they saw no signs of tires, boots, or camps. Moran's silence grew heavier with each step, and Moriarty exhilarated in the aggressive intensity of it. It felt electric on his skin, enticing and invigorating, a storm waiting to erupt into violent thunder and lightning.

When they finally returned to the Rover, the others soon joined them. Each of them looked tired and sore, dirt smeared on faces with sand gritting against their skin. They grouped around Lestrade, six men with exhaustion in their limbs and desert in their mouths.

“All right, well,” Lestrade sighed, running a hand over his face, “I suppose we can be confident that the river isn’t being used to move product.” Rolling stiffness from his shoulders, he tilted his head to the sky and closed his eyes. “Let’s head back to base.”

He turned towards the Rover with exhaustion in his body. A strange sound caught Moriarty's attention, making him turn as Sherlock lunged forward with wide eyes, grabbing wildly at the back of Lestrade’s flak jacket.

“Wait!” Sherlock's voice was loud in the quiet desert, and Lestrade whirled, his expression shifting into confused surprise. Sherlock’s gaze, wild and startled, darted over the sand near the Rover, words spilling fast from his heat-cracked lips. “Footsteps, prints." He barely made sense, spitting observations with machine-gun precision as he read the ground like a book. "There are signs of disruption in the sand. Something buried, something like—”

His frantic words were cut off by the rising, violent rumble of an explosion. The ground erupted as sand flew into the air, and Lestrade hit the ground, pulling Sherlock with him.


	9. the sound of silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg wakes to the aftermath of the explosion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Army slang in this chapter:_
> 
> **Military Confetti** \- Shrapnel

The seconds splitting before from after the explosion were, in Greg's mind, characterized by several sensory occurrences.

In the before, Sherlock was grabbing him by the back of his jacket, his rambling deductions spreading surprise and confusion through Greg's exhaustion. He felt the hot sun and tasted his dry mouth.

In the after, there was a sharp pain in his face and neck, sand gritting against his cheek. A piercing, high-pitched ringing in his ears, and a thick, roping ache through his chest. The taste of metal on his tongue and the feeling of burning in his head.

“Lestrade?” A voice called him through the endless, dissonant ringing. Beneath the sonorous noise, there was a heavy chuffing sound, humming and reverberated along his spine, through his body. Eyes cracking open, Greg blinked until a face swam into focus. Hooked into a drop seat, John was leaning over him, his tense gaze focused on Lestrade.

“Watson?” His voice emerged as a weak croak, and he tasted blood on his tongue. “What—” Greg paused, coughing until pain stabbed through his chest. It left him feeling faded, weak and raw, his throat tightening with a fierce twinge. “What happened?”

“It was an IED, sir,” Watson replied, leaning down to wipe gauze over the blood on Greg's chin. He yelled to be heard over the ambient noise of the space, his voice nearly drowned out by the shrieking filling Greg's ears. “If Sherlock hadn’t noticed what he did...” John shrugged, a hard, grim expression on his face. “We’d probably all be in this helicopter right now, wrapped in body bags.”

Greg frowned and looked up at the curved roof above him, finally making sense of the thumping percussion noise. Taking stock of his body, he felt stiff and restrained—a bodyboard, likely with c-spine stabilization. His thoughts moved back to the explosion, dimly recalling the feeling of being thrown as if a mighty, invisible force had simply swatted him off his feet and into the sand. One of his eyes was foggy and dark as his gaze flickered back to the captain, taking in the small cuts on John’s face. An impressive bruise was beginning to rise high on his left cheek, dried blood clinging to his jaw.

Catching Greg's look, John gestured to himself. “Military confetti," he explained, using a common army term for the pieces of metal and debris that accompanied IED explosions. He pressed gingerly at the bruise on his face, his expression rueful. “I’m just grateful it wasn’t a firebomb.”

“Where are the others?” Greg winced at the sharp pain that lanced through his head. He remembered turning towards the Rover before the detonation and wondered if the vehicle had survived the blast.

John was nodding, picking up on his train of thought. “In the Rover, driving back to camp. It’s a little beat up but still functional. We made radio contact with another patrol after calling for the medical evac. Some of Staff-Sergeant Magnussen’s, I think. They were making tracks to accompany the remainder of our patrol when the helicopter arrived. They should make it to Bastion just after sundown.”

Greg tried to nod, realized he couldn’t move because of the stabilizing straps on his head, and stopped. “No casualties?” he asked, feeling cold relief sink into his stomach when John shook his head. Neither of them spoke for a moment, the beat of the helicopter rotors rumbling around them like they were in the belly of some great beast. Greg's head pulsed with pain, and he winced again. Finally, John broke the silence, leaning over him.

“How do you feel?” he shouted, his voice almost lost beneath the aircraft's drone. “You were caught in the concussion radius and thrown a few feet. You lost consciousness and didn’t respond to stimulus, so we radioed for med-vac.” John’s brows drew down over his weary blue eyes, and he scratched absently at the rusty blood on his chin. “Sargeant Holmes was worried you might not wake up.”

Greg's lips twitched. That was Mycroft, ever the doubter. _After 4 years in this desert, fighting through an endless war at each other’s side, you’d think the man would have more confidence in me. _

Suppressing a snort in response, Greg retook stock of his body, searching for pain and any feeling of wrongness.

His chest ached horribly, and there was a sharp discomfort around his collar bones. Breathing was no longer easy. It had become a chore, a struggle, and his mouth still tasted like blood. His head felt heavy, brutalized by the ceaseless ringing in his ears, and he couldn’t see correctly out of his right eye. It wouldn’t focus properly, no matter where he looked.

When he listed these observations to John, the captain nodded, his mouth tilting down at the corners. “All consistent with blast injury,” he replied, rubbing a hand over his dirty face with a sigh. “I suspect trauma to the lungs as well, but we won’t know for sure until we return to base.” He sat up and retrieved the headset hanging around his neck, settling it over his ears as he spoke into the mouthpiece, addressing the pilot. “How much longer, Charlie?” He was silent a moment, listening to the response. Nodding, John lifted the left side of the headset, pushing it back behind his ear. “We’ll be wheels down in about 15 minutes.”

Greg blinked his eyes in place of nodding. His vision seemed to be worsening, dimming around the edges, and his chest felt tight and hot. Coughing, he closed his eyes, drifting.

* * *

When he woke again, the ache in his chest was immense. It was nearly suffocating like something was sitting on his ribs. Greg turned his head to look around and found he could almost move freely. There was no more helicopter or spine board, just bright lights and a hard gurney beneath his body. Something rested on his face, strapped over his cheeks, and he raised a hand to his mouth, touching tingling fingers to the plastic curve of an oxygen mask. He tried to take a deep breath and couldn't, the weight on his chest constricting his airways to what felt like pinpoints. 

The shapes of three men hovered at the edge of the gurney, and Greg squinted against the bright light as it refracted off white-painted concrete walls. He wheezed, still tasting iron, and felt his chest tighten further. One of the men turned at the sound, his dark eyes focusing in on Greg's face over a white medical mask once he realized the patrol commander was awake.

“You’re awake, good.” He reached out and lifted the oxygen mask with a gloved hand, wiping at Greg's mouth before replacing it. Greg sucked in a hungry breath, his head swimming when he couldn’t get enough air. The man continued, “No spinal trauma, sir. We’re going to take a look at your chest, see what damage might have been done by the blast.” He patted Greg's arm lightly, trying to impart some sense of comfort through the cold, clinical environment.

Another masked man moved to his side, and Greg looked up into Watson's blue eyes. “Hey Sarge,” he greeted, touching Greg's shoulder. “Glad to see you awake again, you had me worried in the ‘copter.”

Greg nodded before the motion made him wince, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. The pain in his chest seemed to be increasing, crushing, as heavy fatigue washed over him. Despite the oxygen mask, he had to gasp for each breath, his pulse racing with a wave of dizziness that painted starbursts behind his closed eyelids.

A volley of robotic beeps sounded nearby, followed by a burst of voices that spurred a flurry of activity around him. They rose and fell, discordant and at odds with the belligerent ringing in his ears. Still struggling to get oxygen, Greg tried to ignore the sudden chaos surrounding him, but the air just wouldn't come, no matter how he tried to inhale.

“O2 levels are in the 80s!”

“His heart rate is too high. BP is dropping—”

“Tension pneumothorax, possible barotrauma. We need to depressurize that lung!”

The noise and words flooding into his still-ringing ears, Greg shook his head. “My chest,” he muttered, his voice weak and breathy beneath the oxygen mask. “It hurts—” hands were touching his face, lifting the oxygen mask as a voice called his name.

“Lestrade, can you hear me?” Someone patted his cheek with gentle but firm fingers. “Greg!”

His eyes cracked open, one still darker than the other. John was leaning over him again, his face tense.

“My chest hurts,” Greg ground out before a harsh, wracking cough shook his frame. John nodded, the skin over his eyes creased.

“You have a collapsed lung," he said, his voice muffled by the mask over his mouth and the ringing in Greg's ears. "Hold still, I need to relieve the pressure—” his voice trailed off as he lifted a long needle, sucked in a breath, and pushed it hard between Greg's collar bones. Compared to the agony in his chest, the stab hardly registered, lost to the larger ache battering his body. When John withdrew the needle, the pressure in his chest lightened considerably, the weight suddenly reduced. It was still there, but greatly lessened, and Greg sucked in a breath. He felt sweat break out on his skin, and shivers crawled over his limbs.

“Okay, watch for shock—we need to get a chest tube in, ASAP.” The voice came from above his head, and John turned away, another man moving into his place.

“All right, Lestrade, hang in there, okay?” the new man said, and Lestrade stared at him. The edges of his compromised vision were burning black and grey, and he couldn't find the energy to answer. The ringing in his ears was incessant, while the pain in his chest was all-consuming. 

Tasting blood in his throat and mouth, Greg shut his eyes and let a wave of red bear him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A pneumothorax is a collapsed lung, caused by air trapped between the lung and the chest wall; the air places pressure on the lung and makes it collapse. This can cause cardiac arrest if it compresses the heart. Happened to my dad, was very intense (he had a spontaneous pneumothorax, which happens without trauma or evident cause). 
> 
> Soldiers hit by IEDs usually have ‘blast lung’ or pulmonary barotrauma, which is similar to the impact that happens in your lungs if you get the ‘bends’ when scuba diving. Lots of pain and issues breathing.


	10. marking time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Struggling with leaving Sherlock behind, John feels helpless as he waits for the patrol to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Army slang in this chapter:_  
**Marking Time-** a drill where soldiers march in place or a metaphor for an army career moving nowhere (in this case, wasting time waiting)  
**Bleed Green-** an overly keen soldier, a new recruit  
**Contact-** engagement with the enemy  
**Radio Silence-** no radio contact

John finally left the trauma unit feeling stiff, his body tight and tense. There was blood on his face, his own and long dried, and on his gloves was Lestrade’s, thick with mucous coughed up by decompressed lungs. His back ached with severe, throbbing pain, the muscles knotted into a nearly debilitating cramp. John passed medical officers and army personnel as he walked through the base, nodding wearily to those he knew, not slowing to speak to anyone.

He stopped by the barracks, grabbing a first aid kit and a change of clothes before heading for the showers. In the shower compound, he moved into a cubicle, stripping off his scrubs and underclothes with numb hands. Closing his eyes, John stepped beneath the spray, letting the hot water wash away sand, sweat, blood, and exhaustion. He tilted his face into the stream and winced as the water stung cuts and bruises on his skin.

While he scrubbed soap over his tanned skin and sore muscles with unsteady hands, John watched the suds swirl down his legs and into the drain, washing away a miasma of red, brown and grey. With his eyes closed, the events of the past several hours played through his head in vivid detail, each moment starkly clear.

He heard Sherlock yelling out, his hand snagging on Lestrade’s jacket. Saw his patrol commander turning back, stepping unwillingly towards Sherlock. The movement had probably saved his life, even if Greg wasn’t entirely out of the woods yet.

Then there was the explosion, a rush of sand into the air that brought a harsh ringing to John’s ears as the edge of the blast pushed him to his knees. He saw Sherlock falling to the ground ahead of him. Lestrade was thrown backward, pushing Sherlock's body aside like a ragdoll with the force of the eruption. Mycroft jerked back, Moran and Moriarty yelling and cursing somewhere behind John as sand and shrapnel flew into their faces. The feeling of sharp pain as debris and metal cut into John's skin, striking against his face, neck, jaw, arms, ripping through the fabric of his gear.

Scrubbing his fingers over his scalp, John puffed out a ragged breath, thankful that it hadn’t been a larger detonation. Grateful that the IED had been buried beneath the Rover. That the armoured vehicle and the weight of the desert sand had softened the force of the blast. That they hadn’t been standing closer, and Sherlock had reacted in time. So many things had kept the eruption from being fatal, and the reality of how thin that line was made John's hands shake.

Tugging at his hair harder than necessary, shampoo between his fingers, John gritted his teeth. His mind repeated the breathless minutes when he’d been unable to hear over the ringing in his head. When Sherlock had lain on the ground, staring up at the sky with wide, stunned eyes, blood running down his face from a cut high on his forehead. He had been so still, seemingly lifeless under John's hands. The memory brought the taste of John's panic with it, his fear that Sherlock wouldn't move, wouldn't answer him when John called his name and wiped the blood from his unblinking eyes.

He remembered how Lestrade jerked and coughed phlegm flecked with red and black into John’s lap as John bent over him. How Mycroft's face had paled, his eyes transfixed while he helped John strap the Staff-Sergeant to the spine board. John could hear Moran’s obscenely calm voice as he called for medical evacuation and the radio's squawk when another 4/73 patrol answered their call for backup.

The sand had stung in John’s eyes, windburn scraping against his hot face, blood dripping down his jaw as he felt over Sherlock’s body for broken bones and soft spots. Sherlock had begun to shake, sucking air loudly through his teeth as his mind finally overcame the shock keeping him prone. John had stroked his fingers over Sherlock's face, over a cut on his cheek, the jagged wound on his brow. He had whispered comfort, all the while fighting the shaking urge to pull him against his chest and hold him there, anchoring and keeping Sherlock safe with John's own bleeding body.

In the end, he'd had to leave him there. Turn his back on the man John had promised to keep safe, climbing into the helicopter next to Lestrade with no more than a fleetingly shared glance.

Suds ran down his face, and John pressed a palm to the shower wall, biting hard into the knuckles of his fisted hand. He was filled with tension, the hot water failing to dispel the taut, aching feeling in his body. He would have stayed, should have stayed, couldn't have stayed. The knowledge burned him, but John knew there had been no other option. He was the medical specialist, third in command, with duties and expectations guiding his actions. Sherlock knew that, he understood. They both did.

But leaving Sherlock behind had torn something inside him. The separation had imbued John with a hollow feeling of unease and panic as he’d sat in the rising helicopter, watching the remainder of the patrol fade into distant spots against a desert backdrop. 

The sting of soap in the bullet graze on his neck reminded him of the feeling of Sherlock’s fingers on his skin, gentle as he cleaned and bandaged John's wound. The thought brought to mind the sensation of Sherlock’s hands on his chest and his mouth warm against John’s. He could almost smell their twined bodies, the combination of their scents, of skin slick with sweat and desire as the desert sank into night around them. The impressions made him ache, made him want, made him choke out a pained noise against his knuckles.

Groaning, John gripped himself, wrapping his fingers around where he was growing hard under the warm water. With his free hand still braced on the wall, he pressed his face against his arm, his fist moving in hard, quick pulls around his erection.

Residual panic mixed with the lust and arousal burning in his stomach as he remembered Sherlock’s warm cock in his mouth. Recalled Sherlock writhing beneath him as John hollowed his cheeks, drinking down the salty, bitter pulse of Sherlock’s climax. He tilted his head back and pictured Sherlock’s arching spine and long, pale neck. Let himself sink into the muscle memory of full lips moving against his, and a hot tongue tracing over his jaw.

"Sherlock," he whispered, eyes squeezed tightly shut. "Sherlock, baby, oh, Sherlock." His hand quickened, stroking his cock root to tip in frantic, needy pulls. The sounds he made, broken and desperate, faded beneath the beat of the water against the concrete floor. "Oh, god, Sherlock... please..."

A sharp gasp escaping his lips, John spilled over his pumping hand, and the water quickly washed the evidence of his release down the drain. Caught up in the aftershocks, John leaned against the wall, breathing in shuddering breaths until his heart slowed. Once he felt steady, he rolled his shoulders and shut off the water, stepping out of the shower. Pushing a towel over his wet hair, wiping droplets from his arms, toned chest and stomach, down muscled legs, he straightened and wrapped it around his waist.

John made his way to the bathroom mirror, brushing his fingers through his short and damp, sand-coloured hair as he stared at his reflection and studied the marks on his skin. There were bruises and cuts on his face and a deeper gash across his trapezius muscle. The wounds bled sluggishly, clotting platelets washed away by the shower. Numerous other bruises and impacts marked his body, interrupting the golden cast of his skin.

His lips parted around a sigh, and he walked to his piled clothing to dig out the first aid kit. Returning to the mirror, John tended to the minor wounds, fixing a bandage over the gash on his shoulder. As he moved to set the first aid kit on a bench, the overhead light shone off the silver ID tags hanging from his neck. Staring at them in the mirror, his eyes unfocused. John felt his stomach twist at the memory of Sherlock laying in the sand, his eyes fixed, dog tags tangling at the base of his throat, where’d they’d slipped out from under his jacket. The imagery was a stark contrast to the memory of their coupling, when Sherlock sat before him bare, save for the metal disks on his chest. 

Shaking the vision away, John sat on a bench and began pulling on his clothing, his jaw set and aching beneath the plasters on his face.

* * *

After dropping his dirty clothes into a laundry bag beside his cot, John made his way to the mess hall. Even with evening rushing upon the base, he had no appetite, his stomach twisted into tense knots. Regardless, John sat and spooned beans into his mouth, his movements robotic. His mind was elsewhere, out in the desert with the patrol—with Sherlock—and restlessness jittered through his sore body. His shower and desperate wank had done little to dispel the unpleasant stress hanging over him, and he could feel his muscles beginning to cramp.

The thought that Sherlock was out there with Moran, while John was not, kept echoing in his head. Mycroft had stayed to lead the patrol home, and Magnussen’s patrol would be with them, but it wasn’t enough. John didn’t trust Moran. He wanted to be there, _s__hould _be there, making sure Sherlock was safe, that he was protected. Instead, he was here, the beans sitting heavily in his stomach.

John shovelled food into his mouth and stared at the table. His shoulder was beginning to twinge, tender beneath the bandage, a headache hinting at his temples.

“John!” A hand clapped him on the shoulder, and he jumped, looking up. A man of shortish stature, his smile kind beneath army-issue glasses, dropped onto the bench beside him, placing a tray of food onto the tabletop.

“Hey, Mike." John let his spoon fall back into his own tray with a clatter. “How’s life?” Mike, a sergeant in Major Sholto’s patrol, sighed and wiped a tired hand across his face.

“Oh, you know. Tickety-boo.” Mike waved his fingers and rolled his eyes, still smiling. Mike always seemed to be smiling, but just now, there was an edge to the expression that John couldn’t fail to miss. “What’s better than life in the desert? Sun and bullets and death around every corner. Who needs a vacation when you can come to die in Afghanistan?” His words turned bitter, and he bit into a piece of bread with unnecessary aggression.

John looked at Mike carefully from the edge of his vision and sighed, already knowing the answer to his question, but asking it anyways. “More casualties?”

Mike nodded, his face turning sour. “Five. Four of them privates, fresh off the airbus.” He closed his eyes, dropping the abused bread back onto the tray. “Bleeding green, every one of them. Blown apart by a sodding RPG, along with the Rover they rode on.”

John’s stomach roiled. His head suddenly felt too heavy to hold up, and he stared down at his tray. His appetite, already tenuous, vanished. Brow creased, he thought about the young men, gone and dead in an instant, and tried not to imagine Sherlock in their place. Shaking his head, John touched his fingers lightly to Mike’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Mike offered a shrug but managed a mild, sad smile in response to the attempted comfort. “I always think it’ll stop being such a surprise, you know, when there’s another death. And then…” his voice trailed off, and he stared down at the tray in front of him, his appetite clearly gone as well.

John nodded wordlessly, his mouth fixed into a tight line. Military life, especially out here, was not what anyone called _easy_. In the more specialized forces, like the 4/73, it was worse. Then there was being a medical specialist, an army doctor or nurse, and, sometimes, that seemed like hell.

John had lost men and women beneath his hands, watched lifeblood etch rust-stains into the sand and scrub grass. He had listened to the screaming of soldiers as they lay dying under an unforgiving sun, unable to give even the mercy of a clean, kind death. Sometimes he saved them, sometimes it turned out alright. But when it was like what Mike spoke of, when there was the screaming whistle of a rocket and no time to react, nothing left to piece back together, it was nearly enough to make a man go mad. John had his own fair share of real-life-repeating nightmares from moments like those, and he didn’t wish that on anyone. He patted Mike’s shoulder again and knew there wasn’t much else to be said when the reality was worse than any horror movie.

They were called the atrocities of war for a reason.

* * *

John sat with Mike for almost an hour, talking of lost friends and patrol partners, their food growing cold and thick on the trays before them. When Mike finally stood, stretching out stiff limbs, he gripped John’s arm tightly.

“Thanks, John,” he said, and his smile was back, even if it was tenuous. “You’ve always been a good man.” John mirrored the expression, his own worries momentarily pushed aside.

“You too, Mike,” he said with conviction. Mike had always been a good friend, right from the day they’d met at Bart’s in their university years. Mike had been his roommate, older and farther along in his degree. When he joined the military, they’d stayed in touch, John enlisting shortly after graduation. With two dead parents and an estranged, alcoholic sister, he’d been at a loss about how to move forward in his life after med school. Mike had provided an example for him to follow, a good man putting his training to use for Queen and Country. Even assigned to different patrols, they had remained close friends. Over the past few months, work had kept them apart, and John was grateful for the chance to catch up.

Mike bid him goodnight. John sat a while longer in the almost empty mess hall, chewing over the conversation with a rare feeling of ease.

A group of men, clearly returning from patrol themselves, entered the mess with tired faces, wind-chapped cheeks and sandy gear, and any sense of comfort slipped away. John glanced at his watch, saw it was almost nine o’clock and frowned, staring at the men as they gathered their trays.

His patrol should have been back by now. He and Lestrade flew out in the early afternoon, and the others should have been expected almost two hours ago. With a sick feeling in his stomach, John gathered his tray, dropping it in the dish bin on his way out of the mess hall.

Emerging into hot air, he stuffed his hands into his pockets, pacing across the massive compound with his ID tags bouncing against the front of his off-duty fatigues. Brow furrowed, John wondered if the patrol had already returned, and he just hadn’t heard from them yet.

He made a beeline for a squat, ugly concrete administration building, passing through and pausing inside the entrance. There was a man seated behind the front desk. He looked up from his computer, his head tilted to the side, wearing light-duty gear, a nameplate naming him as Colonel Davis.

“Yes, Captain?” he asked, recognizing and recalling John’s rank with a quick glance.

John nodded, clasping his hands behind his back. “Has the 4/73 Bravo Sierra Bravo patrol team checked in?” 

Davis looked at his computer screen, tapping at the keyboard, frowning as he read the roster, then raised his eyes to John’s face. “According to our logs, they were due back to base a few hours ago, but,” his voice trailed off as he read the rest of the patrol report, “our last contact was with Magnussen’s patrol. They were heading out to meet them, and intel of... oh wait.” He clicked rapidly with the mouse. “Looks like there was an update half an hour ago that just came through. Staff-Sergeant Magnussen and… yes, that is the Bravo Sierra Bravo call sign. They reported contact and requested air support and backup, followed by radio silence.” He looked up and tilted his head. “Everything okay, Captain?”

John’s face had gone white, the colour draining from his skin at the words. _Contact. Air support and backup. Radio silence._ Terms every soldier knew and dreaded. He cleared his throat around a tightness that made breathing difficult.

“Fine,” he managed, coughing when his voice sounded wrong in his own ears. “Yeah, I'm fine. Thank you, Colonel.” Davis nodded, clearly unconvinced. But John spun around on his boot heel, striding quickly from the admin building.

He wandered through the compound, passing groups of men and women in off-duty gear. Some were talking in loud voices and drinking alcohol, while others huddled in quiet circles, their heads hanging and their hands empty. On nights like these, with death hanging in the air, it was easy to recognize who had felt loss that day.

John crossed the compound, aiming for the barracks. Colonel Davis’ words echoed through his head.

_ Contact. Radio silence. _

The patrol was still out there. They had met with danger, maybe a firefight. Something bad enough to require air support and backup, even with Magnussen's patrol. There had to be wounded, perhaps worse. Maybe casualties.

John's pace stuttered, a thought rising over the others, drowning out the rest of the noise in his head.

Sherlock was still out there. He was _still out there, _should have been back hours ago, and John was here. John had sat and talked with Mike, laughed and comforted and shared stories, all while Sherlock had been out in the godforsaken desert. Had called for air support, reported contact, fallen into radio silence.

He should have stayed. Couldn't have stayed. The dichotomy of his thoughts threatened to eat him alive.

John passed his own barracks. He beelined for the bunk tents reserved for privates, lancers, and bombardiers. Pushing the flap aside, he walked through the narrow aisle, passing by sleeping figures and those still sitting up. Some were reading, others were on their phones, a few stared at the canvas walls with unfocused eyes. John ignored them, his pace unimpeded as he stepped over packs and poorly stowed gear.

He found Sherlock’s cot easily. It was the one with the photo of a big red dog taped on the wall over the pillow, the blue i-pod with the black headphones. John stopped and looked at the music player, pinned in place by the simple knowledge that there was nothing but classical music on it. He might not know all of Sherlock's past, but he knew this. Knew it was mainly violin arrangements, some organ pieces, performances from entire orchestras. He knew this, knew how Sherlock liked to pick apart the compositions, complained that he missed playing, had left his violin back in England. 

This was a fact, it was real, tangible. As real as the reality that Sherlock was out there, radio silence heavy between him, John stuck on base without answers. But he knew this, the music filling a five-year-old i-pod, and it was not nearly enough.

John hesitated before bending to drift his palm over the rough blanket covering the cot. Panic tightened in his chest, and he sank down to sit on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped tightly on his bent knees. His various cuts stung. The bruise across his cheek ached, and there was a steady, pulsing heartbeat in the wound on his shoulder. With energy jittering through his body, John leaned back until his skull pressed into the middle of the narrow mattress. Legs hanging off the edge of the bed, he stared up at the ceiling. The blanket smelled like Sherlock, and he pulled the pillow toward him, finding and curling a dark strand of curly hair around his finger.

_ Sherlock, _he thought, the internal words sounding desperate even to him, _please come back to me. _

* * *

The sound of someone coughing in a neighbouring bed woke him. John shot up into a sitting position, alert and confused by the unfamiliar surroundings. These were not his barracks, and the man on his left was a stranger. He jerked his head around, looking to the front as the tent flap shifted, and someone stepped through. They were unknown as well, turning to drop into a nearby cot.

Floodlights filtered into the tent before the flap fell back into place. John’s eyes widened as he realized he’d fallen asleep on Sherlock’s bed. No one had woken him or questioned his presence, but people would definitely talk if he wasn't more careful.

As he blinked his eyes clear of sleep, something cold and ugly sank into his stomach. Scrambling to his feet, John lunged forward, running out of the barracks tent with his pulse racing. He glanced at his watch as the light hit his face.

_23:43_. Nearly midnight and the patrol still hadn't returned. Or, at least, Sherlock hadn’t.

As John jogged out of the tent, his feet slowed and faltered. He looked around, uncertain where he was going or what could be done. This wasn't the first time a patrol hadn't returned when expected or hadn't returned at all, and John doubted it would be the last. Helpless, feeling like his chest would crack open with the frantic beat of his heart, John dug his hands into fists.

_ Sherlock. Where are you, Sherlock? _

A whirring sound and the rumbling tempo of a helicopter pulled him from his thoughts. John tilted his head up, watching an Apache rise into the air from the airfield, its rotors tearing sand into miniature storms as the sleek frame lifted. Floodlights glared off the ugly black cast of the metal body, and the war machine thundered overhead, diminishing the sounds of the base.

Neck craned back, John watched the metal beast roar into the sky and away from the compound, wincing as it fired rockets into the desert with a fiery spitting noise. When the noise of the Apache faded into the air, the sound of new rotors replaced it. His head whipped around as a much less graceful transport helicopter reverberated over the base.

The helicopter angled overhead before righting itself and sweeping toward the earth. As it touched down, John stood stock still, watching with tension humming through his body. The blades kicked up sand, sweeping it into his face and hair. He waited as the rotors slowed, the rotation decreasing until the large craft perched on the ground with stilled blades. 

Two men leapt out first, turning back to the craft as a tall, grey-haired man with a sharp face leaned down to shift a pale-faced man into their arms. The first two took his weight between them, helping him limp toward the medical facility. Blood soaked his leg, his skin sallow, expression tensing with every step. The grey-haired man, who John recognized as Magnussen, dismounted from the craft with Mycroft on his heels, the artificial illumination of the floodlights picking up red hair as Mycroft's boots hit the concrete.

John’s heart leapt into his mouth, and he watched the two men move aside, making room for those behind them. A young, vaguely familiar man dropped out of the helicopter with Moriarty on his heels. Moran jumped out after with a bored expression on his face and blood in his hair, a lit cigarette between his lips. He looked dishevelled and destructive, unperturbed by the red caking his face. There was no one behind him, and John sucked in a hard breath, panic threatening to rise and crash over him.

Someone else appeared in the open side of the craft, moving slowly, his shoulders stooped. At the sight of him, everything fell back into place, the world once more right-side-up.

Sherlock stepped out of the chopper, his combat gear stained and darkened by sand and gore. There was a slight limp in his step. When Sherlock raised his head, his curls were plastered to his skull by a thick mess of sweat and blood, his rifle dangling from one hand by its strap. Even at a distance, his eyes looked faded and unfocused as he walked on unsteady legs. When he finally met John’s gaze, his eyes sharpened through the exhaustion on his face, and a shaky smile spread across his lips. At the connection, John breathed out a long, unsteady exhale, lungs aching as he realized he had been holding his breath.

"Sherlock."

In case you aren't familiar with an apache helicopter, here it is!


	11. teflon-coated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit hits the fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Military slang in this chapter:_
> 
> **Teflon-Coated** – Nickname for someone who got themselves out of trouble.  
**TACSAT** – Radio used to call Fast Jets or Apaches for troop support  
**No Duff** – Not a training scenario; the real deal  
**RPG** – Rocket Propelled Grenade (launcher)  
**Uglies-** Apache helicopters
> 
> Note: When Sherlock says they are the 4/73 Bravo Sierra Bravo Patrol, the reference is to BSB: Baker Street Boys. I had to.

Rifle settled across his lap, Sherlock watched the evac helicopter lift into the air with dark eyes from where he sat on the Rover's hood. The vehicle was battered but functional, one tire flat and scored with shrapnel, the body canted to the left. His ribs ached, forehead stinging from a cut that had spilled blood down his face. Closing his eyes, Sherlock breathed slowly, focusing on the memory of John's panicked hands moving over his body until his eyes flashed open again, and he turned to face the rest of the patrol.

Moran was standing behind the mounted machine gun, handling the weapon with meticulous hands. A lit smoke dangled between his teeth, flicking against the corner of his lips. Catching Sherlock's eyes on him, he glanced up and arched an eyebrow, his expression anticipatory. Unsettled, Sherlock looked past him, to where Moriarty was standing against the back of the vehicle with his rifle cradled against his chest and his mouth set in a hard line. He didn't look up at Sherlock's scrutiny, staring out at the desert.

Seated in the passenger’s seat, the map spread over his lap, Mycroft’s face was twisted into a dark frown. Tilting around, Sherlock dropped off the hood and moved to look over his shoulder.

“When will Magnussen’s patrol arrive?” he asked, pushing the rifle down until it hung against his thigh, muzzle pointed to the ground.

“I estimate twelve minutes if they don’t encounter any obstacles,” Mycroft mused. His fingertips darted over Lestrade’s scrawled notes, marring the map with thin, slanted writing. “They were patrolling near Sangin, the forward operating base. Magnusson said they were already moving this way before our call.” He settled back against the seat, folding the map into a tidy square with a tense purse to his lips that was a stark contrast to his calm tone. “With luck, we’ll be back at Bastion this evening, give or take a few hours.”

Sherlock nodded and turned to stare into the distance. His face felt sticky with blood, curls pasted to the cut on his forehead. A bruising ache throbbed in his chest and back, and he rubbed at the pain with absent fingers. The sun was low in the sky, and sweat dripped down his face, stinging in his cuts and bruises. Looking around, Sherlock noted the blood and dark marks scoring the faces of his fellow patrol mates. They were all a little worse for wear, but, as long as Lestrade pulled through, they were all still alive.

Curling tight fingers over the barrel of the rifle swung across his chest, Sherlock clenched his jaw. He missed John already, despite the necessity of him accompanying Lestrade. With a sigh, he resisted the urge to close his eyes and fall into his mind to lose himself in the memory of John's body, touch, and dark, depthless blue eyes.

As the minutes dragged on, the sun beat down, pulling moisture from the men's bodies, blazing over their exhausted faces. The remainder of the patrol repositioned themselves around the Rover, seeking sparse shade and staying alert. Someone had planted the IED beneath their patrol vehicle, and it would be suicide to let their guard down now. So they waited, wary and fatigued, listening for backup.

Reclining against a tire, Sherlock took a short pull at the neck of his canteen. The water, long since turned warm, did little to quench his thirst. His fingers clumsy, he fumbled the lid back on and pushed the bottle back into his pack. Beside him, Moriarty lay on his back, his upper body hidden beneath the Rover with his legs sticking out. Head pillowed on folded arms, he stared up at the skid plate.

“Fuck, it’s hot,” he complained, wiping a hand over his face and smearing blood and dirt across a cut on his cheek.

“It’s the desert,” Sherlock reminded him, licking his own dry lips and wincing at the cracked, dry texture.

Moriarty snorted in response. His boots wiggled back and forth, pushing grooves into the sand. "Thanks, Captain Obvious." 

Half-heartedly, Sherlock nudged Jim's knee with the toe of his boot, too hot and tired to snipe.

Nearby, Mycroft crouched on his haunches, slipping a full clip into his handgun. The click was loud in the hot air. Moran was reclined in the back of the Rover, one foot balanced on the machine gun's mount. His face was pink from the sun, his sharp eyes half-lidded and dark. As relaxed and languid as he appeared, the next moment, he surged with sudden action. He pushed up onto his feet with a quick, predatory movement, boots hitting the floor. His rifle lifted, the stock pushing into one broad shoulder as his lips curled back. Teeth bared, he stared through the scope.

“We've got company," he called, his body one long line of solid, locked muscle and readiness. Sherlock and Mycroft jumped to their feet, Sherlock’s rifle rising to settle in his arms with a natural motion. Moriarty ducked up with his own weapon centred, pushing himself out from the Rover with a hard shove. His breath was loud, the sound contrasting with the pulse racing in Sherlock's ears.

Mycroft pressed a pair of binoculars to his eyes and pivoted in the direction the other men faced. A drift of sand billowed in the distance, obscuring their vision of the horizon as the seconds spanned out. Sherlock caught flickers of beige and tan paint and the black slick of tires through the scope of his rifle.

“It’s a Land Rover,” he said, squinting, and Mycroft nodded.

“One of ours." He lowered the binoculars. “Magnussen and his men.”

Sherlock relaxed, his shoulders dropping as he let the rifle hang down from his chest. Moran maintained his stiff posture, body thrumming with coiled energy. Finally, he let his arms fall, bitter disappointment in his steely eyes. Sherlock glanced at him, remembering John’s uneasy warnings, and Sherlock opened his mouth, reconsidered, and closed it. Turning, he watched the approaching Rover, the men inside coming into focus as it neared.

“Finally,” Mycroft muttered. Sherlock looked at him sharply. His brother’s eyes, locked on the oncoming vehicle, were indecipherable as the Rover stopped a few yards off. The men inside jumped out with cautious expressions on their tanned faces. Sherlock vaguely recognized a few of them, including their patrol commander. 

Charles Augustus Magnussen was long and lean, his salt and pepper hair cropped into severe military style. A large sniper rifle bounced against his back in a canvas case, the barrel rising over his left shoulder. Taller than both Sherlock and Mycroft, he moved forward in a smooth, rolling lope, long legs eating up the distance between them. Drawing even with their group, he tipped his head down. “Mycroft,” he greeted, gripping Mycroft’s hand in his own. “Well met.” His words rolled out with a mild, lilting Danish accent.

“Charles,” Mycroft returned the handshake with a nod. “We're glad to see you.”

Magnussen’s mouth tilted up in a crooked, closed-lip smile. His green eyes glittered, fine wrinkles creasing the edges. “Happy to get the call. My boys were going mad with boredom.” He waved at the five men walking up behind him, their rifles slung across their chests, helmets held beneath their arms. Magnussen’s gaze flickered to Sherlock, who quickly drew his feet together, arm jerking up in a salute.

“Sir,” he barked, dropping the stiff posture when Magnussen acknowledged the decorum with a curt nod.

“You must be Holmes, the younger,” Magnussen observed, stepping forward to offer a hand. “Not sure we’ve officially met.”

“No, sir,” Sherlock replied, shaking the offered hand. “Your reputation precedes you, sir.”

Magnussen’s lips quirked, and he tilted his head to accept the comment. Hand dropping back to his side, he turned to introduce himself to Moriarty. They shook hands before he greeted Moran with calm familiarity, the two already known to one another. 

“No other IEDs?” Magnussen turned back to Mycroft, who shook his head.

“Nothing found in our sweep. Thankfully, our Rover is still functional, aside from a flat tire.” Mycroft sighed, “Seems our spare was never replaced after a previous recon trip.”

Magnussen laughed, the sound loud in the heavy air. “No shock there,” he replied. “I believe we have an extra.” Raising his voice to include his own men, he pointed at the canted Rover. “Flat tire, lads—let’s get it done.” He twirled his hand in a circle, and they fell into action. One jumped up on the back of their own Rover and lifted the spare tire, throwing it out into the sand. Another man caught it, whirling to push it across the ground toward the rest of Mycroft’s patrol. A third man jogged over with a toolbox, metal clanking against metal as it jostled in his grip.

“You’ve got them very well trained,” Mycroft observed, his voice wry. Magnussen laughed again, pushing his fist into his thigh.

“They’re very eager, yes," he agreed, watching with a relaxed smile. His face changed abruptly, his bright eyes turning severe. “You’ve been here for too long. Given the IED placement, I think we should move ASAP.” Mycroft nodded in agreement, and Magnussen cupped a hand around his mouth, calling out, “Bolton! Get that rig lifted and swapped, we need to make tracks.”

Bolton raised a hand in acknowledgement, his short blonde hair catching the sun and burning gold. Swinging his rifle onto his back, he knelt down in front of the flat tire. As he lifted a small jack, ducking to look under the Rover, a hard crack shattered the air, followed by a high whining noise before Bolton pitched forward. His chest erupted into a burst of blood and bone, and he landed face-first in the sand, red pulsing out of his body in a steady stream.

“Bloody fucking hell!” Moriarty shouted, dropping behind the Rover. Moran jerked back with his face splattered by Bolton’s blood as he ducked down against the vehicle's side. Sherlock dove after him, slipping through the sand and colliding with Moriarty. They went down in a heap as Magnussen and Mycroft followed. The remaining men took cover beneath and around their own Rover, ducking out of sight.

“Where did that come from?” Mycroft demanded, his face twisting with grim shock. Beside him, Magnussen crawled under the Rover, reaching out until his hand brushed Bolton's blonde hair. His fingers searched, pushing into the man’s neck. He held himself there, stretched out on his stomach in the sand, breathing loud and fast. Finally, he shook his head.

“He’s gone.” Magnussen’s face darkened, his skin spotted with red under the rough scruff of his beard. Reaching back, he pulled the canvas bag from his back. Extracting the sniper rifle, he shoved the stock against the ground, wedging until it sat steady. He shot a hard look over his shoulder at Mycroft, Moriarty and Sherlock, snarling, “Get me a visual.”

Mycroft nodded, turning to look at the men beside him. Moriarty and Sherlock exchanged a quick glance, dark brown eyes locking with pale blue, and jerked their heads up in silent agreement. Sherlock sucked in a breath, closing his eyes for a brief moment as he sent a silent apology into the blue sky.

_ I'm sorry, John. _

Eyes flashing open, he ducked left as Moriarty surged right. They spilled out from behind the Rover and moved in opposite directions. With his rifle bumping against his chest, Sherlock lunged into a bent sprint, the sand sliding loose beneath his feet. For a long, endless spell, the only sound was his heavy breathing, the desert eerily silent. 

All at once, the rapid crack of semi-automatic guns split the air, bullets slamming into the earth to his left.

“Shit!” he panted, a rush of adrenaline pushing him faster. Hurtling forward, he zigged to the right, skidded on his heel and threw himself parallel to the path he had just run. Farther ahead, Moriarty was swerving through the sand, his eyes narrowed and mouth open, gasping as he ran.

They came together, Moriarty’s harsh breathing matching Sherlock’s own heavy rhythm. Dirt and sand flew up under their feet, bullets passing through the heat-hazed air around them. Dimly, Sherlock heard Moran swearing as he fired the mounted gun. A louder crack sounded out as Magnussen’s sniper rifle discharged.

A bullet caught Moriarty in the back, the impact softened by his body armour even as the force of it drove him to his knees. Sherlock skidded in the sand, swinging his arms around for balance. He dropped to a crouch beside the fallen man, relieved at the lack of blood. Moriarty’s combat gear had done its job, the bullet striking the metal plate instead of bone and body.

“Up!” Sherlock snarled, pulling at his arm. "Get up!" Moriarty spat into the sand, cursing and winded, and forced himself to his feet. His voice was a rough, wheezing croak as he cursed loudly.

"Fuck, shit, dammit, ow," he growled, stumbling. Sherlock locked an arm around his chest, and Moriarty winced. "Sod off, Holmes, that fucking hurts!" 

Sherlock gritted his teeth together, hauling Moriarty forward. "Don't be such a baby," he spat, feeling Jim's hot, shallow breathing against his neck. More reports rang out, bullets peppering the ground to their left. “I need cover!” Sherlock roared. “Give us cover!”

Two of Magnussen’s men darted forward, and one dropped to a knee to spray cover fire toward the river. The other looped his hand under Moriarty’s left side. With Sherlock on his right, they helped Moriarty over to the other Rover, Jim cussing and hissing. The man providing cover ran alongside, bursts of fire ripping from the muzzle of his rifle.

The four of them ducked behind the vehicle, Moriarty and Sherlock dropping into the sand in a tangle of limbs. Bullets pinged and ricocheted off the Rover’s armoured side, and Moriarty's breath was loud in Sherlock's ear.

“They’re behind the rocks, on the other riverbank,” one of Magnussen’s men barked. He stood up, bending against the side of the armoured vehicle. “Walker, give me some cover. Haider, you follow when he reloads.”

“Sir!” Walker, a man with dusky skin and wide grey-green eyes, surged to his feet. The man giving the orders rocketed up over the side of the Rover, tumbling into the back. Sherlock recognized him as Magnussen’s second-in-command, a man named David Archer. Shifting off of Moriarty’s prone form, he watched Archer grab for the mounted gun and twist, firing across the river. The bullets ripped into the rock outcropping across the water, sending bits of stone into the air. Next to Sherlock, Walker squeezed the trigger of his rifle, providing cover fire. When he ducked down to reload, replacing the clip with practiced fingers, Haider took his place. He fired a barrage as Archer scored the far side of the river with bullets.

"Take that, you sodding bastards," Archer snapped, forcing the words through his teeth. Still pressed to Sherlock's side, Moriarty snorted, the sound edging into soft, nervous laughter. It sounded borderline mad, making the hair stand up on Sherlock's nape despite the sun beating down on them.

The return fire paused, and Archer rocked back on his heels. An unexpected silence stretched out, and they caught their breath in the sudden lull. Moriarty gripped Sherlock's arm as, from the other Rover, a yell rang out.

“RPG!”

Eyes going wide, Sherlock twisted up onto his feet, throwing himself away and back to the ground as something slammed into the Rover. The vehicle rocked on its suspension with a creak, the rocket ripping through the thick metal like it was paper-thin. Bits of shrapnel showered over him, and a large piece of twisted steel thudded heavily into the sand by his hips. He sucked in a shivering breath, heart racing, grabbing blindly for Jim at his side. Their fingers found and twined together, panic breeding instinctive camaraderie between them. He felt blood trickle down the back of his neck.

“Up, get up!” a voice yelled in Sherlock's ear, demanding and ignoring his terrified whimper. Haider was pulling at his pack, yanking him over the sand. Sherlock struggled to his feet, feeling that his skin was singed along the side of his face. They sprinted from the smoking vehicle, Moriarty on his heels. Archer was limping along beside them, his tan uniform dark with blood. Walker and another man followed, providing cover fire as they all sprinted for a dip in the landscape.

They slipped beneath the depression, and Sherlock dropped to his belly, seeking cover. Moriarty flopped down beside him, wincing as the impact rippled through his bruised ribs. Archer fell to one knee on Sherlock’s left. Propping a heavy machine gun against his thigh, he gritted his teeth and pulsed bullets toward the river. A cry rose in the air, and Sherlock saw a distant figure twist and fall in an awkward heap. Archer sucked in a loud, hard inhale and dropped to his back. His breathing was too fast, and red was splattered over the side of his leg, down to his knee. Haider crawled towards him and pressed his hands hard to the sergeant’s thigh. Blood bubbled up between his fingers, and Haider's brows drew together in a grim scowl.

A loud commotion drew Sherlock’s attention, the sound of a shout echoing in the air. Beyond the smoking ruins of Magnussen’s patrol vehicle, Moran leapt forward with his rifle raised, darting toward the river. Magnussen and Mycroft followed, firing cover as Moran threw himself into the water. His loud snarling was audible over the rattle of machine-gun fire, and bursts of light erupted from the end of his rifle.

As Moran crashed up the embankment, driving forward to the rocks, a bullet slammed into his right arm. Jerking back, he pushed onward, advancing on the insurgent’s cover. Another shot pulled his shoulders back, and Moran dropped to one knee. Ejecting an empty magazine from his rifle, he slammed a full one into its place. Next to Sherlock, Moriarty's breathing quickened, his eyes dark when Sherlock shot him a look.

In the river, Mycroft waded into the water and fired past Moran’s kneeling form, pushing back the barrage. Magnussen stooped around him, pulling away to the right.

"Christ," Sherlock gasped, shaking adrenaline into his hands as he tore his eyes away, looking back to the men around him. 

Haider had his hands pressed to Archer’s bleeding leg, the blood still spilling between his knuckles. Archer looked pale, his lips turning blue even as sweat shone on his face. Without waiting for orders, the other man with them, who Sherlock didn’t recognize, threw himself out of the depression. Archer raised an arm as if to stop him, but his lips parted without sound, and he closed his eyes with a groan. Haider soothed a hand down his shoulder, murmuring, "Let him go, just rest."

Frowning, Sherlock looked toward the river, at the man sprinting away from him with his gun lifted, his feet kicking up sand. He snaked around the decommissioned Land Rover and rolled down the embankment, dodging heavy fire with reckless zig-zagging. Coming up onto his feet at the riverbank, the man dove into the water and dashed past Mycroft’s planted feet. Firing in a wide arc, he pushed forward and ducked down at Moran’s side, still on his knees in the wash. Moran was yelling, a long, guttural sound of rage that mingled with the report of his own gun as he took down a man, then another. Blood sprayed from their bodies, and they dropped like dolls as Magnussen’s man helped Moran to his feet, both of them surging up the rise of the river valley.

“Jesus, Ajay,” Haider muttered, shaking his head at the man who had run to help Moran. “What an absolute nutter.” He turned to Sherlock and Walker, gaining their attention with a firm voice. “I need gauze, a pressure dressing, and a tourniquet, or he’s going to bleed out.” He nodded down to Archer. The sergeant’s face had gone pale, patches of red high up in his cheeks, his skin otherwise paper-white. He looked corpse-like, his breathing coming in ragged gasps.

Digging into his pack, Sherlock retrieved a roll of gauze and a thick white square of material. Haider pressed the ab pad against the open wound on Archer’s leg, applying pressure. Beyond him, Moriarty balanced his arms on the ground, rifle pushed into his shoulder as he watched the others. For the moment, the fire was drawn away from them, and the fight seemed far-off and distant.

Sherlock pulled a black strip of nylon and Velcro out of his first aid kit. A thick plastic stick dangled from the end as he scooted closer to slipped the nylon over Archer’s thigh. Securing it tightly with the strap, he began to twist the plastic piece, and the tourniquet bit into Archer’s combat pants, constricting the muscle beneath. Archer huffed, his glassy eyes half-open, dark slits in his face. His mouth tightened into a grimace, and he lifted his hand, biting into his palm through a dirty glove.

“That’s good,” he gasped around the makeshift bite pad. “Now, get the bullet out.” He tensed, jerking to the side, pain twisting his expression. “I think it missed the bone, but it’s still in there.”

Haider nodded, biting his lip as he pulled off his combat glove and replaced it with neoprene. "It's going to hurt," he warned, and Archer barked a weak, harsh laugh.

"No shit." He and Haider exchanged a tense smile before Archer sucked in a breath as Haider's fingers delved into the wound.

Across the river, there was a loud explosion, drawing their attention. Walker shot to his feet and dashed away, his gun raised and boots kicking up sand. Sherlock’s head jerked up, squinting into the mayhem. Through the smoke and rising sand, he caught a flurry of motion, but couldn’t make out specifics. Turning, he found Haider staring back at him.

“I’ve got this," he said, jerking his chin toward his work. “You go.” Sherlock’s eyes dropped to Haider's flak jacket, noting that he was just a gunner. His mouth twitched, uncertain, and Haider shook his head. “Go!” he snapped, pushing at Sherlock’s shoulder. Archer moaned low in his throat, his eyes rolling upward. When Sherlock still hesitated, Moriarty looked back, finding and holding his gaze. Unspoken understanding passed between them, and he nodded slowly before turning back to stare through the scope of his rifle.

Taking his silence as agreement, Sherlock sucked in a breath and closed his eyes for a second of peace. When he opened them, he realized the sun was beginning to set, ignored by the men caught in a fight, and the evening was rushing down upon them. 

Heart racing, his pulse loud in his ears, Sherlock rolled to his feet and lurched up off the ground. His thoughts drifted toward John, to his own vow to always return to the older man. Pushing down the faint feeling of guilt, Sherlock sprinted to the other Rover and hurtled up into the back, digging through the crates and gear until he snatched up the TACSAT radio. Dropping onto his back, he thumbed the button on the side.

“We need air support!” he ground out, wincing as a bullet glanced off the metal above his head. “This is Lance Bombardier Sherlock Holmes of the 4/73 Bravo Sierra Bravo patrol. We have a No Duff casualty and multiple contacts! I repeat, a No Duff casualty and multiple contacts!”

There was a crackle, the device spitting static before a voice finally answered, nearly drowned out by Sherlock's racing heart. “Roger that, Holmes. Hold steady, we’re locking onto your location now.” There was a pause, and Sherlock’s breath rattled out of his lungs, his chest heaving. “Okay, Lance Bombardier Holmes, we have a couple Uglies in the air. See you in a few.”

Sherlock nodded. “Roger that," he gasped, relief sinking into his adrenaline-filled body. "Holmes, over and out.” He shoved the radio into his thigh pocket and tore open one of the crates. Hands shaking, he reached in and wrapped his fingers around the long, cold metal shaft of an RPG launcher. Bullets ripped through the air above his head, and he crouched, jaw clenched, fear tasting bitter in his mouth. Lifting the launcher from the crate, he picked up a shell, loaded the chamber, and grabbed another. Lunging out of the Rover, he balanced the heavy weapon and sprinted down to the river, his posture made awkward by his cargo.

His feet shifted over the sand, and he scrabbled to keep his balance as he skidded into the water, surging up beside his brother. The RPG slipped on his shoulder, and Sherlock repositioned it, panting loudly through his shaking lips. “Get down!” he shouted as Mycroft turned to him with wide eyes, his brother's pupils huge with adrenaline. Catching Sherlock's resolute expression, he nodded, his face tense but accepting.

“Get clear!” he roared, gaining the other men's attentions. “Get clear!


	12. ugly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moran tastes action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Military slang used in this chapter:_
> 
> **Ugly** – Apache gunship helicopter
> 
>   
A shorter chapter than the last, but the next one will be quite long I think, so that'll make up for it. 
> 
> Also yes, Ajay Khatri is based on Ajay from the series. Didn't know what his last name was, so I made one up. Obvs he's not the super-assassin he was in the show, given that this is an AU. I want to try and incorporate characters from the show where I can.

Wallace Bolton, a man who Moran had played cards with two nights before this very mission, stopped to grin up at him before changing the tire. He was a decent enough man, maybe a little dull, but easy to beat at cards, and always up for a late-night drink.

When the bullet ripped through Bolton's chest, it embedded itself in the already flat tire. His blood sprayed in a high arc, painting Moran's face with gore. In an instant, his card game partner was nothing more than meat, bone, and muscle, bleeding out. His body was a limp ragdoll with red seeping into light hair. Moran dropped down against the side of the Rover, clenching his jaw, another man's blood hot and wet on his face. He huddled among crates and gear, slithering past the supplies to peer over the side at the dead body bleeding into the sand.

Magnussen’s voice rose from under the vehicle, shouting, “Get me a visual!" Moran rocked onto his side, staring over the river. His head jerked up as Moriarty and Holmes appeared, running in opposite directions, drawing fire. Moran held his breath, waiting until bullets sprayed into the sand behind them, and he exhaled in a loud whoosh.

The fight that followed was a lesson in confusion and adrenaline. Men yelled, and weapons cracked. Moran leapt up to fire a line of large calibre bullets from the mounted gun, his lips pulled back over his teeth. The enemy fire refused to slow, and he realized the other men were too well covered.

The other Rover rocked as an RPG ripped through it, the man hiding behind it scattering for cover. Blood rushed in Moran’s ears, a deadly calm sharpening his vision as he let out a low, growling snarl that grew into a husky cry of bloodlust. Rifle gripped in one hand, he vaulted out of the vehicle and hurtled down the embankment, plunging into the water as Mycroft and Magnussen followed. Pushing through the river, Moran sprayed bullets upward. He watched as a man stepped into the open and was torn apart by the upward trajectory of his assault and fired another volley until the gun made a clicking sound as the magazine emptied.

Pushing for the rocks, Moran was jerked back by something grazing his forearm. The bullet ripped through the thick fabric of his gear and scored across his skin. Gritting his teeth, Moran lunged forward, the pain ignored, overruled by a fresh surge of adrenaline. A second bullet struck him high on the chest, ripping into body armour and driving his shoulders back. 

The impact sent a ripple of shock through his spine, and he went down on one knee with pain burning across his upper body. Rolling his shoulders, Sebastian deftly ejected the empty magazine, throwing it to the side. While he pushed another into its place, Mycroft fired over his head from behind, providing cover. From the corner of his eye, Moran watched Magnussen make a run for the outcropping.

Another man appeared at his side, dripping with water as he raised his rifle and sprayed a stream of bullets. Two figures emerged from behind the rocks. Mouth falling open, a harsh, wild scream ripped from his throat, Moran cut them down. The impact threw them onto their backs in twin sprays of blood. The man beside him, dark-skinned and wild-eyed with adrenaline, helped Moran to his feet.

Side by side, they rocketed up the embankment. The stranger dove away, slamming the butt of his rifle into the face of a man holding an RPG launcher. Moran filled another man with bullets, whooping as a second moved forward, only to drop dead at his feet, felled by Moran's gun.

Behind him, Magnussen called out, “Khatri! Cover!” The man who had helped Moran to his feet whirled. He planted his knee on the ground and covered Magnussen. The tall staff-sergeant dove around the rise of rocks across from them and Khatri lowered his gun, pivoting on his heels. When Khatri shifted around, Moran pressed their backs together. They watched Magnussen pull a grenade from his chest, mouthing the pin out and tossing the device toward the sound of gunshots.

Dust and sand swirled into the air, and someone screamed. With his back still pressed hard to Khatri’s, Moran squinted into the cloud. A man ducked out of the swirling cover, too fast for Moran to get his rifle up in time.

“Grab my arms!” he growled at the man against his back. Khatri quickly looped his arms through Moran’s elbows and locked his hands across his own chest. Snarling, Moran shoved his boots hard off the ground, pushing hard as Khatri bent under him. Legs lifting, Moran kicked out with both feet, catching the oncoming man in the chest. Shoving with all his weight, he ripped his arms free and followed the man to the ground, coming down on top of him.

The man reached for his handgun, but Moran grabbed his arm in a vice-grip. With a jerk, he pulled it straight out and brought it hard onto his bent knee. The sound of breaking bone cracked through the air, and the man let out a long, high-pitched shriek, making Moran grin. The man writhed, and Sebastian slipped his hand down to his boot, unsheathing the knife strapped to his leg. 

Looking the man in the eye, Moran dug the blade deep into his neck. Blood bubbled up, spilling down the man’s throat and into the sand. The light faded from his eyes as he went limp, his face contorted with shock.

Lips curved in a grin, Moran pulled the knife free and wiped it against his pants. He turned to find that Khatri was gone, and an unfamiliar body lay on the ground with a bullet through his face. What remained of his eyes stared up into the darkened sky.

“Get down!” The voice demanded obedience, and Moran whirled to see Sherlock skidding into the water with a loaded RPG in his hands. 

His older brother went to his knees, roaring, “Get clear!”

Moran threw himself down the incline, rolling into the dirty water at the river’s edge. Khatri darted in beside him as Magnussen splashed through, ducking behind Mycroft. Sherlock grunted, hefting the RPG onto his shoulder as he waded out of the river. 

He planted himself down, bending one knee with the other leg stretched out flat on the ground behind him. Pushing his butt back onto his heel, Sherlock braced the long, heavy launcher against his right shoulder as he fired the weapon. The kickback pushed him sideways, and he twisted to stay upright. 

The rock exploded into shale, and two men skidded down the hill, their limbs spasming before they lay still. Sherlock loaded the weapon again, a bullet whizzing past his hip. Moran jumped forward and fired, a man collapsing with a cry as his aim found its target. Sherlock’s lips curved in a tight smile, and he repositioned himself. Hunkering at his side, Moran pulled hot air into his mouth, sighting through the rifle’s scope.

The launcher roared a second time, and more gravel flew, small bits of rock showering down. It was glorious, the sight filling Moran with a rush of excitement. Sherlock was quivering at his side, his eyes bright in his sharp face, his lips parted around his loud, heavy breathing.

Maybe he wasn't so green, after all. 

As the dust settled, the hum of engines rumbled through the air. Jerking around, Moran watched two Apaches swing toward them, rotors splitting the thick air with heavy noise.

“We have air support!” Moran yelled. “Let’s move!” He grabbed Sherlock’s arm and hauled him up. Together, they jogged down the incline, Sherlock cradling the launcher against his chest. Moran’s arm pulsed and throbbed, and his skin felt hot with spilled blood.

Familiar faces merged alongside them as the two 4/73 patrols came together, diving behind the remaining Land Rover. Magnussen and Moran slipped under the vehicle, their rifles set and ready. From behind, Haider and Walker moved in low crouches, Archer supported between them. The sergeant limped slowly on his leg, impeded by the tourniquet, his face pale and eyes almost closed. The men at his sides lowered him carefully to the ground, and he groaned, leaning back against the vehicle.

The Apaches roared overhead. A harsh rattling sound filled the air as they rained bullets down, followed by a loud rippling noise, a rocket shooting into the rocky outcroppings. Screams drifted across the gully, and shale exploded into the air.

“We’re going to need transport,” Mycroft said, his face a spot of white in the dark. He was looking at Archer, his mouth pulled down in a frown. Sherlock nodded, dropping the heavy launcher to the sand. Digging the radio out of his pocket, he thumbed the button.

“This is Bravo Sierra Bravo, requesting immediate air evacuation for two 4/73 patrols. We have wounded and one casualty. Over.”

“Hello Bravo Sierra Bravo, we read you. Same coordinates? Over.”

“Affirmative.”

The radio crackled with static, and the voice spoke again. “Roger that, we’ll have you out of there shortly. Over and out.”

As the radio fell silent, one of the Apaches fired another rocket. The ensuing explosion threw more sand and debris into the air before silence stretched out. Moran stared across the river, trembling with anticipation.

Gradually, Magnussen and Mycroft moved out from behind the Rover. Loping across the river, they climbed the incline, weapons at the ready as they checked the area for survivors. When they turned back, slipping and sliding along the hill, Magnussen threw his arm above his head, his hand closed into a tight fist. Moran's breath rushed out of his mouth.

They were clear.


	13. melt like this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunited, Sherlock and John take comfort in one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [BTSK](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XH8DY3mkrpY) by MS MR
> 
> _  
Big teeth small kiss  
I turn to wax and melt like this  
Melt like this_  
  
_Caress my knees with your tongue  
Teeth on my waist I come undone  
It's those hours in the night just before a light  
Run your hand down my spine  
We kiss the dusk goodnight  
Goodnight  
_

They wrapped Bolton’s body in his sleeping bag. Sitting on the ground, the exhausted, battle-weary men watched his blood seep through the nylon fabric.

Sherlock dug his boot heels into the sand. With his hands limp on his thighs, he felt fatigue sinking into his bones. It rounded his shoulders, scattering his thoughts and leaving him in a tired haze. His ribs still ached from the blast, the pain seeping back in now that the adrenaline was fading. 

Seated next to him with sand on his face, wheezing quietly with every breath, Moriarty cleaned a gunshot wound high on Moran’s upper arm. It was a long groove, dug by a bullet, the wound caked with half-dried blood. Moran’s face was smeared with red, some of it from his injuries, some of it from Bolton. Sebastian mouthed at the lit cigarette between his lips, examining Moriarty’s hands with half-lidded eyes.

Smoke drifted from across the river, and, adjacent to Sherlock, Archer sat propped against the remaining Rover. His breathing was shallow and loud as blood soaked through the bandage on his leg. His face was deathly pale, eyes feverish and bright in the flickering light cast by their battery-powered torches.

A far-off rumbling sound reached his ears, making Sherlock raise his head. Emerging from the night sky, a transport helicopter roared overhead, circling beyond the demolished Rover and touching down. The rotors kicked up sand, slowing but not stilling entirely, lest danger strike, and it needed to take to the air in a hurry.

Sherlock struggled to his feet with a muffled groan, hauling his pack over his shoulders as he swayed. Moriarty and Moran were up and moving toward the transport, Moran flagging with exhaustion, his face dark and empty beneath the blood spatter. Mycroft, Sherlock, and Magnussen followed with Khatri close behind. At the rear, Haider and Walker supported Archer between them, helping him over the loose sand. His breath slipped out in little groans, barely audible over the rotors' sound, his face creased with pain as he limped alongside his men.

Scrambling inside, Sherlock dumped his bag against the wall before he turned to watch Magnussen kneel and take Archer over his shoulders. The injured man gasped as his leg buckled. Magnussen steadied him and rose with Archer draped across his shoulders, stepping up into the helicopter, his men helping slip Archer off his back as the staff-sergeant knelt. Once Archer was seated against the wall, Khatri, Haider, and Walker rushed out into the dark. They carefully lifted Bolton’s body off the sand, carrying it toward the chopper with grave expressions. Their exertion and exhaustion were evident in the tendons standing out in their necks.

"You guys look like you've been through hell and back!" the pilot shouted over the noise, twisting to watch them climb inside. 

Mycroft offered a grim nod, helping Magnussen stabilize Archer against the wall. "You've no idea. Take us back to base, please, Gregson."

"You got it, Holmes." The rotorcraft lurched into the air, blades kicking sand and dust up in its wake, and Sherlock slumped against his pack, letting exhaustion turn his limbs loose.

* * *

The ride was uneventful, the metal cabin filled with the resonant sound of Archer's harsh breathing beneath the hum of the rotors. Sherlock stared out the open side, watching the desert pass by in the dark, illuminated into a silver wasteland by a full moon. His head throbbed with the beginnings of a headache, and he closed his eyes. The humming of the helicopter lulled him into a daze from which Sherlock only emerged when he felt the aircraft begin to tilt toward the ground. 

Blinking his eyes open, he watched distant lights flicker into view, brightening as they neared. They circled closer, reducing elevation, and Camp Bastion emerged from the dark, glowing pale white from the automatic floodlights. An Apache roared by, spitting fire and ripping through the roaring noise of the helicopter. Gregson lifted a two-fingered salute at the Ugly's pilots and deviated his course to avoid their flight path.

"Fuckin' wankers," he snapped, shaking his head as he brought his own craft down with practiced precision, settling the rotorcraft lightly on the cracked concrete.

Magnussen crouched and pulled Archer back onto his shoulders. Khatri and Walker jumped out ahead of everyone, raising their hands to take his weight as Magnussen lowered the wounded man. Bracing David between them, they guided him across the asphalt. The others exited behind, Moran still with gore on his face.

Sherlock was the last to step out of the helicopter, taking a moment to rise to his feet. He felt stiff, limping slightly, his face hot and sticky with sweat and dried blood. When his boots dropped onto concrete, the last of his adrenaline flooded away. He took several weary steps forward before he lifted his head and saw him.

_ John. _

There was John, standing motionless with his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock could feel the weight and warmth of his gaze, as welcome and brilliant as perfect sunlight. He couldn't help the slow, tired smile that curved his lips at the sight, John's shoulders and face seeming to soften in response.

As Sherlock moved forward, John came toward them with fast strides that brought him quickly to the large group. His eyes darted around, taking in the battle-weary men and Archer's bloody leg before zeroing in on Sherlock. “What happened?” He directed the question to Mycroft, but his gaze remained on Sherlock.

Mycroft sighed out a long, fatiguing sound. “We met up with Magnussen’s patrol,” he gestured to the tall, grey-haired man beside him, “and were ambushed at the riverbank.” He passed a hand across his face, smearing dirt and blood over his skin. “If we hadn’t called in air support, I don’t think we’d be standing here now.” His expression tightened, brows drawing down in a grim frown. “Magnussen lost one of his. Wallace Bolton.”

Eyes narrowing, John turned and watched as Haider and the pilot lifted Bolton's sleeping bag-wrapped body to the ground. Sherlock studied John in profile until the captain jerked around again, his eyes focusing on Sherlock’s face like a laser beam. Sherlock shifted under John's intense stare and dropped his eyes to his rifle, his mouth suddenly dry. Smoothing his hands over the stock, he could still feel John staring at him.

“Right,” John replied, speaking slowly and deliberately as he turned to Magnusson. “I’m sorry,” he said fervently. "He was a good man." Sherlock looked up again to see Magnussen nodding, his face looking pinched and tense. Mycroft approached the captain, blocking him from Sherlock's view.

“How is Lestrade?”

John tilted his head. “Touch and go. We inserted a chest tube for a tension pneumothorax, and he seemed to stabilize. He'll go for x-rays and MRIs once Mike's awake.”

Mycroft nodded, his face smooth. Only a slight crease between his eyes gave away the tension in his posture. “Thank you, Captain Watson," he replied, clasping his hands together at his back. “I will make sure to check in on him after I have filed my reports.” Turning away from John, Mycroft reached out to shake hands with Magnussen, the action leaving John once more visible.

Meeting John’s eyes again, Sherlock found the captain looking back at him with an imperceptible, complex expression. Sherlock walked forward on legs shaking with his heavy exhaustion. He moved close enough to feel the warmth of John’s body and paused, listening to the uneven tempo of John’s breathing. They looked at one another, and Sherlock's mouth opened, but nothing emerged. His words fled as he blinked at John’s face, twisted with uncertain confusion. Sherlock’s brushed the back of John's hand with his fingertips, hoping the simple gesture imparted the things caught in his throat. He had so many words to say, too many words to speak.

He smiled with relief when John nodded, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's face. They fell into step, leaving behind the others as the helicopter lifted into the air again, rumbling away into the dark. Sherlock tensed, waiting for Mycroft to shout after them, but no one called them back. Walking together, they passed through the compound in silence, boots thumping over the tarmac. They moved beyond the blast barriers, into the inner camp, passing groups of soldiers and personnel. Their path took them toward the tent quarters of the minor ranks, and Sherlock sighed a slow, heavy breath as it finally sank in that he was back on base. That he had survived, made it back without significant injury. 

He felt John touch warm fingertips to his arm and turned to look down at him. John's expression was indecipherable, his eyes shadowed. “I’ll be right back,” he said, his voice soft, hushed. "Wait here for me."

"Okay," Sherlock murmured, confused but agreeable. John nodded and stroked his arm before turning and disappearing. Sherlock watched him go with a small frown before slipping into the tent.

Head ducked, Sherlock made his way past sleeping soldiers, past half-awake men with their noses buried in phones and books, past those staring at nothing. Walking to his cot, he paused to take in the picture of Redbeard above the pillow, feeling a faint hum of childhood nostalgia and old sorrow in his chest, buoyed by his growing exhaustion. His eyes dropped, and Sherlock frowned, taking in the rumpled blanket, previously left unwrinkled before going on patrol several days ago. Bending, he caught the unmistakable scent of shampoo, soap, and John on the fabric. He paused, confused, and pressed his face to the scratchy material with a deep inhale. Lungs filled with the smell of John, his eyelids fluttered.

John had sat here. No, not sat but _laid_, Sherlock corrected, brushing his fingertips over several short, sandy hairs caught in the material of the blanket. Possibly slept, staying long enough to impart his scent into the scratchy fabric. With the realization came a rush of warmth in his chest, travelling higher as a flush reddened his cheeks. He stroked a hand over the blanket and straightened, shaking away the haze drifting over him.

Dropping his gun onto the cot, armed with an armful of clean clothes and toiletries, Sherlock turned back to the entrance. As he stepped out into the hot air, he looked around, sighing when John approached from the left, slipping something into his pocket, his blue eyes bright in the dark. 

They looked at one another in silence, Sherlock still feeling like there wasn’t enough space for all the words he needed to say. Instead of speaking, he smiled, his exhaustion making even that simple gesture a struggle. John looked back at him with a strange light in his eyes, slowly returning the expression, his thin lips curving at the corners. With an unspoken agreement, they moved away from the tent, back toward the centre of the base.

Sherlock clutched the bundle of clothes to his chest as John stared steadily ahead. They walked through the darkening compound, silent and quiet with one another. His exhausted legs carried Sherlock to the shower compound, and John followed him inside. To Sherlock's relief, it was empty, the stalls and change room silent. 

Still without speaking, John took Sherlock gently by the arm and pulled him into one of the stalls. After he’d yanked the curtain closed behind them, John turned to Sherlock with a tense and soft face, his expression an impossible contradiction. One of his hands lifted to cup Sherlock’s jaw, the pad of his thumb stroking over and over along a sharp cheekbone.

“Sherlock,” John began before the rest of the words seemed to catch in his throat, and he shook his head. Hands shifting to Sherlock's shoulder, John pulled him into his chest and pressed his face against Sherlock’s neck, inhaling deeply as he began to shake.

Sherlock pushed his fingers into John’s short hair, feeling the short, soft strands cling between his knuckles, murmuring, “John.” He tilted his head to nuzzle against John's temple, breathing him in. “I told you I would always come back to you.”

John mumbled something incomprehensible into his skin. When Sherlock frowned, confused, John’s head jerked up. "I promised to keep you safe," he said softly, his forehead creasing. "I promised, and then I left." Shaking his head, he curled a hand into a fist against Sherlock's chest. "I promised," he repeated helplessly. Sherlock stared down at him, not sure what to say. He breathed out shakily, and John's expression softened as his hand slid into Sherlock’s curls, and he pulled his mouth down. The kiss was hard and clumsy, their teeth clicking together as John bit at Sherlock's lips. It was aggressive, uncertain, feeding Sherlock's growing desperation.

“John,” he whispered. The tentative edge in his voice only served to push John into a furor. He gripped his fingers harder in Sherlock’s hair and tugged him against his body, digging a hand into Sherlock’s hip. John sucked with vicious force at Sherlock’s bottom lip, his nails drawing red lines over the side of Sherlock's long neck as he swept his hand lower. His eyes flashed with sudden longing. John shoved the collar of Sherlock’s flak jacket away, fastening his mouth on the hollow of Sherlock's shoulder. 

Using both teeth and tongue, he coaxed a trail of bruises from Sherlock's tanned skin, his hands slipping down to find contact under Sherlock’s gear. John's nails dug into his back as he murmured, "Sherlock, _baby, _I'm so sorry."

Sherlock let his head fall back, making a soft, destitute sound in his throat. His focus narrowed to John’s mouth as it moved over his neck, blocking everything else out. When John darted up to nip Sherlock's jaw with eager teeth, Sherlock slid his hands up John’s chest and pushed his fingers into broad shoulders. To his surprise, John hissed in a sharp breath, jerking away. His face shifted into a grimace, and Sherlock quickly released his grip.

“Sorry, are you—” he began, the words dying in his mouth as John shook his head and pressed his lips back to Sherlock’s, the kiss shockingly gentle after the aggressive onslaught.

“I’m fine,” John murmured. “I’m fine.” His lips moved over Sherlock’s face, reverent and lingering. “I’m fine, you’re fine, that’s all that matters.” His arms came up around Sherlock’s back, locking over shoulder blades through the thick jacket and body armour. They stood like that for a long moment, pressed together, John with his face in Sherlock’s neck, Sherlock pushing his cheek into John’s short hair.

Eventually, John leaned away and began to unbuckle Sherlock’s combat gear. His movements were slow and meticulous as he stripped off the heavy camouflage and protective layers, letting the clothing drop to the floor. He unwrapped Sherlock like a gift, his hands gentle and lingering.

“Sit,” John murmured, pushing Sherlock’s shoulders until Sherlock dropped onto the wooden shower bench, looking up at John with calm eyes in his bloody face. John bent and pressed a kiss to both corners of Sherlock’s mouth, then more directly on his lips. Their tongues moved together as he cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands, John's fingers shaking with minute tremours.

When they finally broke apart, Sherlock looked up from beneath lowered lashes, John kneeling before him and unlacing Sherlock’s heavy boots. He pulled them off one at a time, followed by the socks. Slipping his hands up Sherlock’s thighs, he undid the standard-issue belt and worked at his fly. Sherlock lifted his legs to help John slide the cargo-style trousers off, followed by his pants, leaving him bare from the waist down. It was a strangely vulnerable position, but Sherlock felt safe, protected, caught and held by John's steady gaze.

“Stand up,” John said quietly, getting to his feet as Sherlock moved quickly to follow. John toed off his shoes, shedding his pants and underclothes. Moving forward, he ran his hands down Sherlock’s chest. Gripping the bottom of Sherlock’s undershirt, John pulled it over his head and tossed it to the floor. 

His eyes drifted over Sherlock’s naked form, head to toe and back. When his eyes returned to Sherlock’s, the dark blue irises were soft and liquid.

“You,” John stepped forward until Sherlock’s back pressed against the wall, “are so…” he shook his head and reached up to brush his fingertips over Sherlock’s lips. "You're so _fucking _gorgeous, Sherlock.” His fingers trailed along Sherlock’s jaw and down his neck. Reaching the dog tags nestled against Sherlock’s chest, he gripped them in a tight fist, twisting his wrist, using the chain to pull their bodies together. “I need you to be mine.”

Sherlock stared down at John, feeling a bright flush creeping up his chest and into his face. Eyelashes fluttering in a series of quick blinks, he cleared his suddenly dry throat, and his lips curved into a slow, crooked grin. “I already am, Captain Watson,” he murmured, his voice a low, baritone rumble. “I thought that was quite clear.”

The rest of his words fled as John’s mouth met his, hungry and rough, stealing the breath from his lungs. John kissed Sherlock until his head spun, and he gasped for air, dizzy and swaying. "Good," John breathed against his mouth, his eyes half-open and darkened. "Yeah, that... that's good." 

One hand still tangled in the chain of Sherlock’s ID tags, John shifted them around, backing Sherlock into the shower stall. Dropping light kisses over Sherlock’s shoulders and neck, he leaned around and turned on the taps with his free hand. Anchoring Sherlock against his body, John's lips moved over the blurring line where sunburn faded to paler skin, not yet overexposed to the cruel Afghanistan sun.

Sherlock let his head fall back, resting against the tiled wall, the shower stream dampening his sweat-and-blood stiffened curls, water running over his face. His lips parted around an unsteady sigh, he trailed his fingers over John’s broad shoulders and muscled chest, tracing new cuts and bruises on warm skin. The shower spray slicked their bodies, and John pressed into him, his hard arousal pushing against Sherlock’s thigh, prominent and demanding. Sherlock groaned in response, sliding his hands over John’s back, moving lower to cup his arse. Pulling John up and forward, he gasped as their erections ground together. John bared his teeth, growling into Sherlock’s ear, nipping at his neck with an eager mouth. The sting was sharp but not unpleasant, and Sherlock groaned, feeling John grin against his skin.

"Baby," he breathed, nuzzling into the mark he'd made, making goosebumps break out over Sherlock's skin. "God, I missed you, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed a soft whimper, shifting his hips forward to rut messily against John's hip, whispering, "John..." 

Cupping the back of Sherlock’s head, John tangled his fingers in Sherlock's wet hair. Eyes closed, he pressed their foreheads together, panting as they pushed into and slid against one another. “Fuck, Sherlock, you feel so good,” John groaned. His eyes flashed open, darkened with arousal, Sherlock tilting his head to angle their mouths together. The kiss was all tongue, and hot breath, as John’s hands wandered over his chest, tweaking a nipple between thumb and finger. Sherlock whined against his lips, the sound sucked away by John’s hungry mouth.

John broke away, drawing a petulant sound from Sherlock at the loss of contact between them, his hands grabbing greedily for him. Grinning, John retrieved a small bottle of shampoo from Sherlock’s toiletry bag, squeezing the mild-smelling liquid out into his hand before dropping the bottle and turning back. He lifted his head to kiss Sherlock again, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, working the shampoo into Sherlock’s hair. His fingers kneaded through tangled curls, scrubbing the product over Sherlock's scalp with slow, massaging circles. Sherlock hummed, his eyes sliding shut with a shuddering sigh.

Once Sherlock’s curls were thick with shampoo, John pressed him back under the spray, reaching down to stroke a hand over Sherlock’s erect cock. Sherlock let out a soft cry and clamped his mouth shut, remembering where they were, but John just smirked and planted one hand against the wall as he leaned forward. He stroked and pulled with the other, making Sherlock’s hips jerk forward, his lips clamped hard over the noises rising in his throat.

When he began to tremble, John suddenly released him. Sherlock’s mouth dropped open, and he glared at John's smug expression. Before Sherlock could protest, John leaned forward, his lips inches from Sherlock's. His quick, heavy breathing was hot against Sherlock's cheek as he promised, “Don’t worry, love. I am_ far _from finished with you.”

Sherlock shivered at the words, his eyes falling shut. John moved away, then returned, and Sherlock jumped as something smooth brushed his shoulder. Opening his eyes, he watched John working over his chest and shoulders with a bar of soap. His hands were gentle as they moved over Sherlock's body, washing away dried blood, sweat, and dirt. John was relentlessly focused, pausing only to kiss or tongue at or nip as it seemed to take his fancy. His lips fastened on the curve of Sherlock's hip, and Sherlock pulled in a shaky breath, bracing himself against the wall as John washed down his legs. He smoothed the soap over the long, tense muscles of Sherlock's calves and back up, moving over his thighs. He cleaned between Sherlock's cheeks, the sensation gentle and making Sherlock squirm, his cock twitching with need. 

John's fingers skated up Sherlock's stomach, lingering on his navel, drawing sighs and gasps with his wandering touch. Finally, his hand sliding up to grip Sherlock’s chin, John rose to his feet and brought their mouths together. Sherlock shivered, John whispering against his lips, “Turn around.”

Catching his bottom lip between his teeth, Sherlock whirled. He was clumsy and overeager, nearly losing his footing, pressing his palms to the wall and shuddering as John’s hands moved around his waist. They locked across his chest, John leaning forward to drift the tip of his leaking cock over the crest of Sherlock’s arse. Grinding up against him, John’s mouthed along his neck and earlobe. He licked a path down to Sherlock’s shoulder and fastened his lips over the trapezius muscle, cheeks hollowing as he sucked. A bruise rose beneath his mouth, and one of his hands slid lower, stroking over Sherlock’s twitching, needy cock, drawing a soft moan from his throat. The touch was electric, filling Sherlock's body with heat and burning, aching desire.

“John,” he gasped, pressing back into John’s chest, “I want... _please, _I want to feel you.” His eyes dropped and blackened, lashes fluttering low as colour flooded into his face, turning his cheeks crimson. "Please, John... I need you to fuck me." John groaned and bit down on Sherlock's shoulder, making Sherlock stifle another cry into his own hand.

“Anything for you,” John breathed fervently against his skin. “Anything.” Slipping a hand down Sherlock’s wet back, he stroked his palm over Sherlock's arse. He circled between and lower, a finger pressing into tight muscle. Sherlock’s breath huffed out as his body tensed and relaxed at the pressure. He forced himself to go loose, groaning long and low into his arm as John penetrated him, finger sliding up to the first knuckle, then all the way to the third. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, driving his cock against the wall, and he sobbed with need, working his teeth into his arm to stop from crying out.

"John," he whimpered, pushing back as John moved his finger out and back in, stroking slowly into his body. _"John."_ His voice turned high and needy, shaking with greed when John's movements quickened until he was fucking Sherlock with his finger, Sherlock's knees threatening to buckle. "John, John, yes, John, yes." Babbling a soft, breathless litany of John's name, he rolled his head forward, forehead grinding against the wall of the shower. The water was warm as it washed down his head and neck, trickling over his back, his body quivering at the stretch of John adding a second finger. "Fuck!" he panted, hips rolling and seeking friction, finding nothing but the slick, wet tiles. Sherlock growled his frustration, whining as John's fingers slipped in and out slowly, the pace teasing, maddening. Sherlock jerked backward, pushing into John’s touch. His head tilted back, the muscles of his arms standing out in hard lines as he braced his hands against the wall.

Leaning forward, John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s neck, mouthing over the hollow beneath his ear and across his jaw. His fingers stroked in and out as Sherlock moaned quietly, shuddering when John's fingertips brushed his prostate. "You're perfect," John murmured, lapping water droplets from the delicate ridge of Sherlock's upper vertebra. "Look at you. You're just aching for me, aren't you?" Sherlock whimpered, another full-form shiver working through him, vibrating against John's body, pressed hard to his back. He felt John's cock twitch in response, bobbing over the crest of his arse, brushing precum over John's fingers and Sherlock's quivering hole.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, pleading and desperate. “Please, John.”

John’s lips brushed over his ear, and he chuckled. “Anything for you,” he repeated, echoing his earlier words. Sinking his teeth into Sherlock's shoulder, John dropped to his knees, catching Sherlock by surprise.

"John?" he began, but before he could turn, John's hands gripped him by the hips, holding him in place. Sherlock went still, trying to look over his shoulder and see what John was doing, but unable to see from the angle. Instead, he dropped his head, letting it hang as he looked downward. He studied John's fingers, curved over his hips, and spread his legs to glimpse John kneeling between them. John's cock was hard, thick and damp with both the shower spray and his own arousal, jutting up between his thighs with the foreskin pulled back to reveal the dark, reddened head. Eyelids lowered, Sherlock licked his lips, imagining how it would feel to take John into his mouth. He wondered what it would be like, stretching his lips wide for him, wondered how far he could take John in, if he could let him fuck his throat without gagging too strongly. 

One of John's hands disappeared from view, and Sherlock's thoughts scattered as a thumb brushed his hole. It prodded, stroked and traced gentle circles against the sensitive flesh. Sherlock groaned quietly, biting his tongue to keep anything louder from escaping. Before he could recover, John planted a hand on his arsecheeks, pushed them apart with his fingers, and pressed his face forward. Sherlock felt John's nose drift against his skin, followed by a hot, wet drag over his hole. His knees buckled, and he caught himself on the wall, palms making a loud squeak against the tiles.

"Ah!" he gasped, eyes widening as he realized what was happened. "Oh, yes, _ohhhh_, _John... _That—that's so—god, John, _don't stop." _His voice rose into something high and breathless as John's tongue flicked over him again, a broad sweep followed by a targeted prod. The tip traced the puckering of his hole and delved inward, penetrating him in determined, delicious pulses. Mewling, shaking, Sherlock struggled to hold his position, fighting the urge to rut forward, to drag his cock against the wall. Grateful for the shower as it hid the sound of his filthy avarice, Sherlock sighed and whimpered beneath the onslaught of John's attention.

John leaned back, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's cheek, whispering, "That's it, baby, that's it. Feel good?"

Nodding his head, Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, his words disappearing when John's tongue pressed into him again, this time accompanied by a finger. He huffed, muffled a cry against his arm and rocked his hips back helplessly, desperate and shuddering as John added a second finger. He thrust them smoothly into Sherlock's body, his tongue shifting alongside, fucking Sherlock with his mouth and hand. The combination made Sherlock writhe, reaching down to fist his cock to relieve the tension of his arousal. John's hand shifted from his hip to his groin, stroking Sherlock's pumping fingers with a groan.

"God, yeah," he whispered, leaning back and working just his fingers in and out of Sherlock. "Yeah, baby, touch yourself. Fuck, Sherlock, you're so beautiful, I can't wait to have you on my cock. Mmm, baby." He tilted forward, penetrating Sherlock with his tongue again. Sherlock sobbed against his arm, reacting to John's filthy words, his curling fingers and relentless mouth.

John stretched him wider with a third finger, taking Sherlock's cock in hand when Sherlock's grip stuttered. Stroking him with long, languid pulls, John pulled him backward, pinning Sherlock's lower body between his mouth and hand. The sensation was intense, John breaching him with fingers and tongue, pulling him root to tip with practiced movements. Sherlock felt his body begin to tense, writhing with the rush of pleasure.

"John—John, I'm—oh, fuck, John. I'm close, I'm so close." Eyes shut tightly, Sherlock rocked back into John's mouth, forward into his hand, fingers scrabbling at the wall. His bollocks tensed and began to pull up. His body was going tight and taut in preparation before John suddenly released his cock and leaned away. The abrupt loss of contact nearly sent Sherlock into collapse. Only through sheer willpower did he remain standing, turning wide, shocked eyes over his shoulder to see John standing behind him. "I—I..." he stammered, brain misfiring as he edged away from almost climaxing. Whining, stricken, he moved to turn around, and John stopped him with a hand on his back.

"Not yet," John murmured, pressing a soft, playful kiss to the side of Sherlock's throat. "Don't you want me to fuck you?" His fingers trailed down Sherlock's spin to cup his arse, massaging slowly and making Sherlock groan.

"God, yes." He tilted his head as John mouthed over his neck, shivering at the delicate sensation before John stepped away. His absence felt immense. "Please, John, please fuck me." It became a litany, a worshipful chant until John returned, pressing against Sherlock's back, his hand covering Sherlock's mouth to stifle the words. 

"Shhh," he whispered, nuzzling into Sherlock's neck. "Do you want everyone to hear you?" As Sherlock panted against John's palm, he strained his ears, sound filtering back in as the fog of lust faded slightly. He heard men's voices, boots on concrete, taps turning, and water splashing against tiles. Nodding, eyes huge in his face, he wriggled back against John's body, silently promising to be quiet. John breathed a muted laugh into Sherlock's neck.

Running his palm over Sherlock’s arse, up to his back, and over his shoulders, John tangled his fingers in wet hair. Pulling Sherlock's head to the side and shifting around, John pushed his tongue over Sherlock’s bottom lip. Sherlock moaned into his mouth, reaching down to stroke himself. His cock curved up against his stomach, twitching with need.

“Please, John,” he breathed, looking down with dark, lidded eyes.

John pulled his nails down Sherlock’s side with a smirk, eliciting quakes and weak groans before bending to retrieve a small bottle from the floor. Flipping the cap open, he slicked two fingers with lube, kneading Sherlock's arse as he slipped them into Sherlock’s body. His hole loose and slick, coaxed into relaxing by John's tongue and hand, Sherlock pressed back, groaning low in his throat. When his fingers slid inside smoothly and efficiently, without resistance, John twisted and thrust them in and out several times, making Sherlock's toes curl against the tiled floor. He heard John's soft sigh, then his fingers disappeared, and he braced a lube-slick hand on the small of Sherlock’s back. The head of John's cock brushed the side of his hip, John tugging impatiently at Sherlock's thighs.

“Duck down," he whispered, draping an arm around Sherlock’s hips and tugging. Sherlock pushed his legs back obediently, dropping lower. Forehead leaned against the wall, he panted out a helpless sigh and closed his eyes, feeling John's cock brush his hole. He swallowed back a moan, struggling to hold his position while keeping himself pliant and soft.

Pressing forward, John pushed into him. He met brief resistance, stroked a soothing hand down Sherlock's curved back, and penetrated him slowly. Sherlock’s body gripped him with steady warmth as he slid inside by increments, John smothering a wordless noise of ecstasy against his arm. He bit into his own skin, his eyes rolling back.

“Oh god, Sherlock," he huffed out, his voice husky and rough, hardly above a whisper, relying on the shower to drown him out. Sherlock’s body quivered at the feeling of John stretching him, sliding deeper with slow, careful ruts of his hips. Pressing his forehead harder against the wall, Sherlock nudged his own hips backward, making John sigh when the movement pushed him deeper, sliding into Sherlock as far as he could. Fully seated, he sucked hard at the back of Sherlock's neck, muffling the urge to gasp and moan his pleasure.

“John…” Sherlock breathed, tilting his head back. From the long line of his neck to his open mouth, he was shaking, his eyelids fluttering. Flush against him, John's body was firm, a wall of hard muscle and quaking legs, his cock thick and hot inside Sherlock. 

John shook his head, mouthing at Sherlock's skin with a helpless, shaky breath. "Fuck," he whimpered, fingers digging bruises into the skin over Sherlock's hipbones. "I can feel you," he said, eyelashes fluttering. "I can feel your heartbeat, you're so fucking tight." Hooking his hands around Sherlock’s waist, John slowly drew back and pinioned forward, burying himself deep inside Sherlock. “Fuck…” His thrusts were sleek and smooth. Sherlock’s body clenched, gripping John tighter as he thrust again, whispering, “That looks… _amazing._ Sherlock, you...” He shook his head, forehead rolling against Sherlock's shoulders. "You are _so fucking tight." _His movements were long and languid, unhurried. Reaching around, he wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s cock, stroking with the rhythm of his hips.

Breath coming in ragged gasps, Sherlock rocked against John. His hands dragged down the wall, and he pressed his fists hard against the tile. He was close, hovering on edge, his body tense and aching from being denied orgasm earlier. With his head tilted, Sherlock bit hard into his forearm, squeezing his eyes shut, moaning against damp, goosebump-covered skin. John shuddered, the sensation reverberating inside Sherlock's body as he trembled in response. Pressure built at the base of Sherlock’s spine, and he whined through his teeth, releasing his arm and leaving indentations in the flesh.

“John,” he gasped, relaxing his jaw to force the words out. “I’m—I’m gonna..." Sherlock shook his head, voice dying in his throat at the feeling of John's cock inside him, the head dragging over nerves and making him pant loudly, water spraying into his open mouth. _ John, please." _

Dropping his head, John mouthed over Sherlock’s ear, his breath hot against shivering skin. “Yeah? Are you close, baby? You want me to make you come?" At Sherlock's desperate nod, still unable to speak coherently, John smirked, husking, "Come for me, gorgeous,” as his tongue traced along the curve of Sherlock’s neck. His fingers stroked and twisted over the length of Sherlock’s cock, making Sherlock's hips jerk forward sloppily, John following with a hard drive of his hips. “Come for me,” he ordered, fucking roughly into Sherlock, his strokes quickening on Sherlock's cock. "Come on, baby, come for me, let me see how beautiful you are when you come with my cock inside you." Splaying a hand on Sherlock's bent back, John's thrusts quickened, striking deep and steadily into Sherlock's body.

With John’s mouth dipping to his shoulder, sucking at the skin, his words dirty and demanding, Sherlock trembled, stifling a cry into his knuckles. His whole body jerked, hips shifting forward as he came, spilling over John’s hand and the wall. He felt himself clench around John, still moving inside him, and his breath sobbed out hard and fast.

“Oh god… oh, Sherlock." John's thrusts turned quick and messy, the pace going careless as his hips moved desperately. “Sherlock, can I—?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, locking his hand with John’s as it slipped off his spent cock. Their fingers twined together, and he brought their joined hands to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to John's knuckles. His body was still caught in the comedown of his own orgasm, and his breath stuttered out in unsteady bursts. “Come inside me, John," he whispered, taking one of John's fingers into his mouth and sucking.

The gesture seemed to push John over the edge. He made a quiet, choked sound deep in his throat, the vibration rumbling through Sherlock's back as John drove his hips forward, his breath stuttering, his cock swelling. A low whine dropped from his lips, and he braced one hand on the wall, next to Sherlock's head. Sherlock felt John's breath on the back of his neck, followed by lips and tongue as John kissed over his skin sloppily, groaning long and low. His cock pulsed deep inside Sherlock, filling him with John's release as his arm curled around Sherlock’s waist. With their bodies still joined, John shuddered, trying to catch his breath, clinging to Sherlock's body as his feet slid on the tiles.

"Oh god, oh my god," John panted, his voice high and breathless in Sherlock's ear. "Oh, god, _Sherlock." _His cock twitched again, spilling the last of his cum inside Sherlock as a full-body spasm rocked John's hips forward, pushing Sherlock into the wall. The sound John made was broken, nearly lost in a long, heavy sigh, and he finally fell still.

Pressed together, John softened inside him. They caught their breath, listening to the expected sounds of the other men in the compound. Sherlock's breathing came in little pants, gradually slowing until John slipped out of him. Immediately after, Sherlock felt the rush of semen running down his legs, thick and warm compared to the cooling shower spray. He let John turn him around, feeling dazed. Their mouths met, tongues brushing, John's hands tangling in his curls.

Lukewarm water sprayed down and sluiced over their skin, washing both of them clean.


	14. forked no lightning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night](https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/do-not-go-gentle-into-that-good-night-by-dylan-thomas) by Dylan Thomas
> 
> _“Though wise men at their end know dark is right,  
Because their words had forked no lightning they  
Do not go gentle into that good night.”_

With his fingers steepled together beneath his chin, Mycroft looked over the man in the trauma bed, helpless to ignore how uncharacteristically small Greg appeared. He seemed diminished by the thick bandages wrapped over his chest, his face ashen, his lips thin and white. A narrow rubber tube snaked out from his side, secured with white medical tape to burnt skin, watery red liquid dripping into a clear pouch strapped to the edge of the bed.

He looked like a man lucky to be alive.

Reaching out, Mycroft touched the back of Greg's hand with light fingers. Lestrade's eyes rolled beneath closed lids, and his breath rattled through wet inhales, caught on stuttering exhales, but he didn't wake. The only sounds were the beeping machinery monitoring Greg's vitals and, behind the privacy curtain, the low, indistinguishable sound of murmuring voices. Someone coughed nearby, a wretched sound followed by a muted groan.

“I’m told you may have a traumatic brain injury, Gregory,” Mycroft murmured, shifting forward to curl a hand around Lestrade’s forearm. “I suppose we will know for certain once you are awake.” His face took on a hard edge even as his eyes softened. “And you_ will_ wake up, Gregory,” Mycroft insisted, patting a warm but motionless hand. “There is no room for argument on this subject. You can be sure that I am _quite _firm on that point."

Greg did not stir, but his chest rose and fell steadily, and the machines droned on with comforting regularity. That was enough for Mycroft. It would have to be. 

* * *

Mycroft entered the sleeping quarters designated for the higher-ranked soldiers with bleary eyes. Unlike the lower rank's accommodations, this was an ugly, box-like building instead of a canvas tent. The habitation areas were small and sparse but closed off with thin doors and walls. Some of the rooms held two small cots, others one and a desk. At the end of a long hall, noise drifted from a shared common area.

Mycroft's feet felt leaden as they carried him toward the sound of voices and scuffing chairs. Dragging weariness from the previous day sat deep in his bones. Not even a hot shower had managed to banish his lethargy, making it an uncomfortable companion to the iron-like weight of his aching head.

He was a rational man, basing his worldviews in reason and irrefutable fact. Rationally, Mycroft knew Camp Bastion was the best trauma and medical facility in the entirety of their middle eastern militant reach. He knew Lestrade was strong, just as he knew people recovered from pneumothoraxes and lived extraordinary lives with traumatic brain injuries. Still, these facts did little to lift the weight from his shoulders. In a moment of doubt, he wondered if rationality was as integral to the human condition as he had once presumed.

Entering the shared space, his eyes shifted around the room, studying the men inside. Several sat at a flimsy foldout table, playing a loud, raucous game of cards while others stared with mindless faces at some rom-com type movie on a muted television. A few sat in hard chairs or on padded benches, their eyes looking faded and unfocused.

Magnussen belonged to the third group. Large hands in his lap, his fingers spread over his knees, the patrol commander stared down at his shoes. He was clad in tan off-duty clothes, the long, lean lines of his tall body evident in a way often hidden by the bulk of his combat gear.

“Charles,” Mycroft greeted, stopping beside him. “May I join you?”

Magnussen inclined his head in silent agreement, and Mycroft folded down to a hard seat on his left. They sat together, letting the seconds draw out. Magnussen’s fingers twitched and folded against his palms in a slow movement, his expression oddly absent of focus.

“How is Lestrade?” he asked, turning his vivid eyes to Mycroft, who shifted in his seat and stretched out his long legs before answering.

“Alive.” Mycroft paused and tilted his head, adding, “Recovering, I should say. The medics are waiting for him to regain full consciousness so they can assess any potential cognitive deficits.”

Magnussen nodded, his eyes shifting back to his feet. “I am relieved to hear he is still with us.” His lips pursed, and a shadow dropped over his face. “Bolton’s body is being prepped for transport.” He raised his head, looking at the ceiling with a slight frown creasing his brow. “They’re sending him home.”

Mycroft’s breath rushed out of his mouth in a loud sigh. “Did he have a family?”

“A young wife, married on his last leave. I believe she is expecting. Twins.” Magnussen’s voice was tight, his pupils contracting. His hands curled into fists in his lap, the movement not unnoticed, prompting Mycroft to reach out, dropping a heavy hand on Magnussen's shoulder.

“I'm sorry, Charles,” he said in an earnest tone, his face grave. Magnussen raised his head, zeroing in on Mycroft’s face. The gaze held for a long moment before Magnussen looked away. The rigid line of his shoulders dropped, fatigue passing over his face.

“Yes. Thank you, Mycroft," he replied, fingers falling loose. “How is the remainder of your patrol faring?”

Mycroft steepled his hands beneath his chin thoughtfully. “More or less fine, save for a few minor injuries. They will live to be idiots another day,” he sighed, crossing his legs and leaning back in the chair. “How is Archer? His leg wound appeared quite serious.”

Magnussen nodded, tapping a finger against his knee and adjusting a pair of round, plain glasses, pushing them higher up on his nose. “The bullet missed the bone. He lost a lot of blood, but the tourniquet likely saved his life. It was touch and go that he might lose the limb, but the medics think the risk has passed. As long as there is no infection, he should be fighting fit in a month or so.”

“Dumb luck,” Mycroft noted. They both fell into a contemplative silence, reflecting on the young man being prepped for transport to his grieving family, on the children who would never know their father.

* * *

Sleep was an impossibility as Mycroft lay in his narrow cot, staring up at the ceiling. The bed across the room usually weighed down with Greg's sleeping form stood cold and empty.

His memories of the detonation played through Mycroft's head on a seemingly endless loop. It was all a wash of sand and sound, set to the percussion vibrations pushing through the air after the eruption. There was the image of Greg being thrown back into Sherlock, both of them hitting the ground, followed by ringing silence, pain, fear, shock.

In the dark, Mycroft could almost feel combat gear beneath his hands, the recall vivid and visceral. There was rough fabric against his fingers, and Greg's face was slack, his chest unmoving. Mycroft felt himself digging for purchase on hot skin, pressing and praying for a pulse, finding it thready, faint and fluttering, in the curve of Greg's neck. He remembered touching the side of Greg's chest and feeling a new, soft give under the jut of broken or cracked ribs.

There had been blood in Lestrade's silvered hair and staring eyes, and he had been so utterly, entirely unmoving.

The spine board had been the difference between life and death. Mycroft could hear the rough chopping beat of the evac helicopter. It had kicked up sand and dirt as he and Captain Watson fastened ties and straps, securing the injured staff-sergeant with expert but unsteady hands. He had watched the helicopter lift off, tilting into the sky before he turned to find Sherlock back on his feet, blood running down his face from a jagged cut.

Sending his brother into a warzone had been Mycroft's decision. It hadn't been an easy one, but Mycroft had, at the time, believed it to be necessary. He thought Sherlock would be, as incredible as it sounded, safer in Afghanistan. Safer beneath Mycroft’s watchful eye, or so he had imagined. 

All that had separated Sherlock from living and dying today had been another couple of steps. A few overlooked marks in the dirt, and his brother, along with Gregory, would have been shipped home as disassembled piecemeal in a flag-draped coffin. And then, after, any number of bullets could have ended Sherlock's life, cut-down the whirlwind that was his younger brother in a spray of blood.

Hands shaking, Mycroft pressed the heels of his palms hard against his eyes. The images continued to flicker through his head, undisturbed by the pressure pushed into his eyelids.

His relationship with Sherlock had always been complicated, rife with sibling rivalry and unspoken, tenuous irritability. The tie of family, rarely recognized, was all that drew them together. He knew Sherlock believed him to be an empty, unfeeling, machinated parody of a man, yet Mycroft was anything but. He felt emotions just as strongly as his younger brother did. Unlike Sherlock, Mycroft had mastered the repression of such expressions and had cultivated deliberate control over anger, sorrow, happiness, and fear. The life of the soldier required sacrifice, and Mycroft's had been his emotional self-expression. While he did not regret the choices he made, the price sometimes felt immeasurably steep.

Sherlock had nearly been torn down by an IED, could have been killed by enemy fire. If Mycroft had witnessed the destruction of his younger brother in the very desert he had dragged him to, he was not sure he could recover from the wound. Such a loss would be irrepressible.

Eyes fixed on the dark ceiling, Mycroft wondered if he had made the wrong decision, exiling Sherlock to Helmand. His choice had been limited once Mycroft realized that Sherlock had fallen back into old behaviours, even in North Yorkshire, living in the barrack reserves. Instead of straightening out, Sherlock had proved himself capable of self-destruction even within military life. 

Mycroft had pushed Sherlock to enlist with the hope of curtailing the hurricane inside his younger brother, a storm Sherlock always seemed to be caught up in. Sherlock was practiced in ripping himself apart with his own two hands, ever willing to run full-tilt into the maelstrom with open arms.

So he had sent him here, where Mycroft could keep an eye on him. Left with little to no choice, he resorted to shipping his own brother into a warzone. In a possibly misguided view, he hoped the startling violence of deployment would tame the proverbial beast on Sherlock's back. And it had, in its way, but now there were other risks. Sherlock might not be filling his veins with liquid poison anymore, but that didn't mean he wasn't still just as self-destructive.

When Sherlock stepped off the transport plane, Mycroft wondered if this would be it, the thing that finally pulled him back from the edge. Sherlock was forever trying to erase himself, both as a human being and a living, breathing man. Time and again, Mycroft found himself taking harsher and more drastic steps to rein him in.

Walking into the Afghanistan air for the first time, Sherlock's face had been twisted with resignation, defeat and betrayal. Mycroft finally saw him subdued, and it had been heartbreaking, the man reduced to a shadow.

Somehow, John Watson changed everything. Mycroft was uncertain how, but the captain had stepped in and lifted Sherlock from a pit of his own making. He had succeeded where Mycroft repeatedly failed. Even more shocking, Sherlock _let _ John lift him up. Not only did Watson reach out, but Sherlock reached back, grasped the seeking, offered hand and allowed himself to be pulled into sunlight and air. He was like a man coming up from beneath the sucking waves of an endless tide.

Mycroft had watched with awe and foreboding. Here was the potential for salvation, an opportunity for Sherlock to avoid further destruction. This was a senior-ranked soldier making an immediate and powerful connection with a low-level recruit of war. The situation both thrilled and terrified Mycroft—John Watson could be his brother's making or his final destruction.

Thinking back to witnessing that first meeting, Mycroft recalled his resolve to monitor them both. He pulled a scratchy grey blanket over his chest, making a mental note to check in on them once Gregory was in the clear. 

Closing his eyes, he hoped for sleep, but it did not come. Instead, the events of the past few days played through his head on soundless repeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was a short update! I've had a bit of writing block in this chapter, so it took me a while to move past it. Just a note that I will be going away for 10 days over the holiday without my laptop, so updates will be delayed for a bit while I am gone. Happy holidays!


	15. not a game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was so long in coming. I hit a big writer's block two pages in, and it took ages to get around it.
> 
> Chapter title from _This is Not a Game_ by **The Chemical Brothers**
> 
> _No this is not a game, nah babe  
I'm talkin' turn out  
I won't ever burn out  
What I gotta make it turn out, wait!_

Sherlock woke to the sound of gunfire in his head. The rattle of a machine gun. Metal on metal and the high, screaming whine of an RPG ripping through the air. The red splatter of blood and bone fragments as a man’s chest exploded outward. 

Jolting up, he stared around the semi-darkened barracks, hands clenching tight fistfuls of wool blanket. His eyes cleared, making out shapes of men in the cots around him, his tension ebbing away at the familiar surroundings. Cuts and bruises stung on his face and body, sharp reminders of the adrenaline-fuelled terror of yesterday. There was a dull, not unpleasant ache below his tail bone, bringing sweeter memories that helped dampen the horrific imagery of gunfire and death. 

Closing his eyes, Sherlock stretched his arms over his head, languidly recalling the press of John inside him. His teeth sank into his bottom lip, and he quivered. Rubbing his hands over his arms, he remembered John’s mouth on his skin, his touch on Sherlock's body. 

After camping out in the desert, sleeping in a bed felt strange, and Sherlock almost missed the warmth of sand beneath his toes as he pushed aside the rough blanket. He shoved his feet into boots, pulling an undershirt over mussed hair. His dog tags bounced against his chest as Sherlock stood, and he brushed his fingers over the metal chain, warmed by sleep-soft skin. With vivid recall, he could feel the links tangling in John’s clenched hand. Feel the brush of hot lips on his, John pulling him down by his grip on the ID tags. A shiver rippled over Sherlock’s skin, drawing goosebumps along his arms and the back of his neck. 

He laced his boots with quick, shaking fingers and stalked out of the barracks with long strides. The hot morning sun hit his face, and he blinked until his vision cleared. Casting a wistful glance in the direction of the higher rank sleeping quarters, Sherlock turned and made his way to the mess hall.

Inside, he found his gaze drawn to a table near the back, empty save for one man, bent over a plate and eating with mindless motions. John raised his head at Sherlock’s approach, his mouth curling into a smile. Throwing caution to the wind, Sherlock settled onto the bench beside him, their thighs pressing together.

“Morning.” Sherlock stretched, reaching his arms out at his sides and letting his fingers brush along the back of John’s neck. John tilted into the touch before Sherlock’s arm dropped. 

“Good morning,” John murmured, turning dark eyes to the man beside him. Sherlock flushed under John’s gaze but didn’t look away. With his breath quickening, he let his mouth fall open, tongue flicking along his bottom lip. John’s eyes tracked the movement, lids dipping to half-mast. 

Sherlock felt his body tighten in response and swayed forward, unaware of the unconscious movement. His hand slipped along the top of John’s thigh beneath the table, fingers stroking over the rough line of an inseam. 

“Sherlock. Captain Watson.”

The low voice made Sherlock jerk back, heart jolting in his chest as his head whipped around to find Mycroft standing over them. He snatched his hand back into his own lap, eyes narrowed. John shifted away, the absence of his leg against Sherlock’s leaving behind a cold absence as Mycroft sank onto the bench across from them.

“Glad to see you both up and about,” Mycroft said in a clipped voice. His eyes moved over Sherlock’s flushed face, and his lips tightened into a narrow line. “And I am glad to see you appear no worse for wear after yesterday’s ambush. I'm certain I do not need to stress how fortunate we were for your quick thinking when requesting air support.”

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock caught movement as John’s head whipped around, his shock evident on his face. Sherlock pressed his palms hard against his thighs and cleared his throat.

“Yes, well.” He shifted his gaze briefly to John, then to Mycroft. “If this is your version of a thank you, it's not necessary. Anyone would have done the same.” 

“And yet, no one did,” Mycroft replied, turning his focus to John. “And, Captain Watson, Lestrade likely owes you his life.” John nodded, meeting Mycroft’s sharp gaze. Sherlock looked between them, noting the hard, cold glint in Mycroft’s eyes did not match his expression of gratitude.

John didn't reply, and Mycroft stood after a moment of reflective silence, striding away and leaving them alone once more. For a long while, neither spoke until John turned to Sherlock with a frown on his face.

“I know Magnussen lost one of his yesterday, but how bad did it get?” he asked the question in a low murmur, but there was a steel edge to his voice. Sherlock avoided his eyes, scratching at a mark on the table. He didn’t answer, and John let out a frustrated sigh.

“Sherlock,” he began, but Sherlock stood, his mouth pressed into a thin, tense line. He didn't feel like rehashing the events of the day before. Not when it still lingered in his head, and he wanted to enjoy the serenity afforded by John's soothing presence.

“I’m going to get something to eat,” he said, turning away. John’s arm shot out, grabbing the back of Sherlock’s shirt. 

“Hey, please... don’t,” John said with soft urgency. His fingers flattened, palm pressing to the small of Sherlock’s back in a light caress. The touch felt grounding, and Sherlock paused. His eyes fluttered shut as John said quietly, “I’m just glad you’re safe. Okay, Sherlock? No matter what happens, I just want you to be safe.” 

It took immense self-control on Sherlock’s part not to turn and fall into John’s arms. Instead, sucking in a hard breath, he looked over his shoulder into John’s blue eyes and held his earnest gaze. 

“Always, John,” Sherlock replied, and John’s smile spilled warmth through his chest. Removing his hand from Sherlock’s back, John reached up. Obliging the silent request, Sherlock bent down, allowing John to brush his thumb across the cut on his forehead. His skin felt sticky and tacky, and John’s hand came away stained red. 

“Need to take care of that,” John said, and Sherlock’s lips curved as he reached out to touch his fingertips lightly to the nearly-healed bullet wound on the side of John’s neck. 

“A little too accident-prone, aren’t we?” he mused, and John's lips curved into another small smile. 

"It seems so," he admitted before Sherlock reluctantly tore himself away from the warmth of John’s skin, making his way to the mess counter with John’s gaze warm on his back. 

When he returned, plate in hand and piled with a sparse amount of food, he found Sebastian and Moriarty at the table. Seated across from John, they looked up as Sherlock dropped onto the bench beside John. 

“Ah, look who it is,” Moran drawled, leaning sideways against the edge of the table in a relaxed sprawl, “our own bonafide sniffer-dog.” His lips twisted in a smirk, and he tapped a fingertip against the metal tabletop. Beside him, Moriarty let out a harsh bark of laughter, the sound drawing Sherlock’s surprised attention. Jim didn’t look up, just scraped his fork against the plate in front of him, a small grin on his face. 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he felt John stiffen next to him.

Moran sat back and watched Sherlock from under lowered eyelids, arms crossed over his chest. A thick line of stitches darkened the skin of his bicep, visible under the sleeveless shirt stretched tight across his chest. Catching Sherlock’s gaze, his smirk widened to a shark-like grin. “What, nothing to say, freak?” Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but something knocked into his shoulder, cutting him off.

It was John's shoulder, thumping into his own as John surged to his feet. He vibrated with violent energy before moving over the table to grab the front of Moran’s shirt. White-knuckled fist clenched around the fabric, John yanked Moran half-off his seat until their faces were inches apart, noses nearly brushing. With one boot planted on the table, John balanced his other foot on the bench and slammed his palm against the metal. The sound rang out, startling in the quiet mess hall and drawing unwanted attention. 

Sherlock froze as John tilted close to Moran's face, his words escaping on a snarled breath, “Say it again." John's eyes were unblinking as they stared into Moran’s. “I dare you. Say. It. Again.” 

Moran’s grin grew, a dangerous gleam rising in his eyes as John’s lips drew back into a growl. “You really think this is a good idea, Captain?” Moran spoke in a low, even voice, no sign of nervousness or stress in his face. “You think it would be a fair fight, you and me? If I remember correctly, things didn't go so well for you last time we tangled.” 

Moriarty leaned away from them both, his eyes darting to Sherlock. Sherlock hardly noticed, gaze locked on John as his heart raced. He tried to make sense of Moran's words, but there wasn't enough data. Moran was an anomaly. If Sherlock was honest, John was still somewhat of a stranger, no matter the intimacy they had shared together. 

“Maybe we should find out,” John hissed out through clenched teeth. Moran looked back at him with a flat expression, his upper lip curling back. Slowly, one of his hands rose, fingers wrapping around John’s wrist. His knuckles went white as he tightened his grip, grinding the delicate bones in John’s wrist against one another. John refused to flinch, eyes still locked, unblinking, on Moran’s.

“Maybe we should,” Moran agreed coolly. His eyes narrowed, tongue darting out over his bottom lip. He looked like he might devour John, and the sight of his hungry expression made Sherlock shiver.

“Watson! Moran!” Neither Moran nor John moved, caught in their staredown, but both Sherlock and Moriarty winced and looked up as a tall man with cropped blonde hair strode toward them. Mycroft was on his heels, his expression thunderous. “What do you think you’re doing?”

John and Moran didn't respond, locked in their silent conflict, both unwilling to back down. 

Marching forward, the speaker snapped at them, "That's enough!" The front of his fatigues identified him as Major Sholto. Sherlock sucked in a startled breath as Sholto gripped the back of Moran’s shirt and John’s shoulder. Applying pressure, he yanked them apart. John only released the front of Moran’s undershirt at the last moment, leaving the fabric wrinkled and bunched. Moran smoothed his shirt flat with his palms, grinning as John shook Sholto’s grip off his shoulder.

“What's going on here?” Sholto demanded, fixing the four of them with a stern glare. At his side, Mycroft stared at Sherlock, who refused to meet his eyes. “Well?” Sholto barked, tone growing low and harsh as his temper flared. “Do I need to hand out cleaning duties for the shitter to make you all behave?”

“No, sir, sorry, sir,” John snapped, sounding tense and on edge. His narrowed eyes remained locked on Moran, arms twitching with unspent adrenaline. “Just a bit of attitude adjustment that got out of hand.” 

Sholto stared between the two of them, unconvinced. He finally caught John’s eyes. The look they shared was brief but intense, and Sholto nodded before looking back to Moran. “Lesson learned, Bombardier Moran?” 

Moran turned his wolfish smile to Sholto. His fingers gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles went white. “Sure, sir,” he replied, speaking through a wide grin. His eyes flashed, underlying his pleasant tone. “Crystal clear, _sir.” _

Sholto’s eyes narrowed at the inflection on Moran's final word, and he inclined his head with a thoughtful expression. “Right.” He flashed John a pointed look, one John returned before Sholto spun on his heel and strode away.

Sherlock watched Sholto leave, his brows drawing down as he turned to find John staring at the table, his brow furrowed. Something ticked over in Sherlock's head, some crucial, half-formed understanding that dissipated when Mycroft’s hand landed on his shoulder.

“May I speak with you a moment, brother mine?” It sounded like a request, but his tone of voice made it clear it was an order, and Sherlock bristled. His gaze drifted to John, who slowly lifted his eyes from the table to look back at him. The expression on his face was indecipherable. His eyes gleamed with a mixture of possessive anger and something Sherlock thought might be guilt.

_ Why? Why would John feel guilty? _

Mycroft tightened his fingers on Sherlock’s shoulder, once more disrupting Sherlock's thoughts.

_ “Sherlock,” _ he urged, eyes sharp as they looked down at his brother. Sherlock stood with a forced, put-upon sigh, following as Mycroft led the way to an empty table across the mess hall. Sherlock felt eyes on his back and glanced over his shoulder to see John staring after them. His features shifted into an indecipherable expression, and Sherlock frowned as he faced forward.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock snapped, dropping onto the bench. His brother remained standing, arms crossed over his chest. He looked down at his brother with his lips stiff, turned down at the corners.

“What just happened?” Mycroft asked, holding a hand up when Sherlock opened his mouth, urging him to think before he spoke. “What _really _happened? And don’t lie to me, Sherlock." His eyes narrowed, tension evident in his rigid posture. "You _know _it won’t work.”

Sherlock closed his mouth, eyes on his hands as he clenched them into fists in his lap. He skirted the question despite Mycroft's warning. “Moran is an asshole,” Sherlock muttered. His eyes darted to John, and Mycroft sighed. Planting a hand on the table, the elder Holmes bent until he was level with Sherlock’s face. Sherlock tried to avoid his gaze, but Mycroft waited him out, as he always did. Sherlock was an expert in acting out, but Mycroft had the patience to weather his storms, and it was that patience that he demonstrated now.

“Sherlock,” he began in a calm voice once Sherlock raised his head to meet his eye. “I will not always be able to clean up your messes.” His gaze sharpened, making Sherlock tense. “Promise me you aren’t involved in something that I can’t excuse away.” 

Sherlock stared back at his brother, jaw working as he hesitated. If he told him, would Mycroft understand? If Sherlock opened up and explained about him and John? Or would Mycroft forbid Sherlock from continuing? Mycroft had the power to separate them for good, and, after a second of consideration, Sherlock knew he wasn't willing to take the risk. Whatever happened, he would handle it himself. He and John would. Together. Dropping his head, severing their connection, Sherlock looked off to the side, murmuring, “I promise nothing.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, breathing in a sharp exhale. His expression darkened with frustration. "Sherlock," he sighed, dropping his hand and fixing his brother with a hard stare. “I'm going to ask you a question, and you are going to be completely honest with me.” When Sherlock did not look at him, Mycroft grabbed his shoulder and squeezed until he did. His eyes were intense, pale blue and cold. _ “Completely _honest,” Mycroft repeated. Sherlock stayed silent, teeth clenched as he held Mycroft's stare, refusing to back down.

They glared at one another until Mycroft sighed. When he spoke, he sounded exhausted, his words heavy with fatigue. “Sherlock... are you sleeping with him?” Sherlock twitched at the question, eyes wide and nostrils flaring before he could suppress his shock. He cursed and closed his eyes, knowing Mycroft must have noticed. When he opened his eyes again, Mycroft looked grim. Sherlock schooled his expression into an impassive mask, knowing it was too late.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mycroft," he said weakly, affecting a flat tone even as his eyes flashed, tight lines creasing the edges of his mouth. Mycroft’s lips turned down at the corners, and he leaned away with a frustrated expression.

“Oh, I think you do, Sherlock,” he replied in a low voice. His disappointment was palpable, creasing his brow. “I _sincerely _hope you aren't stupid enough to become intimately involved with a superior.” His eyes narrowed, his next words nearly a growl. “Stay away from John Watson, Sherlock.”

"Or what?" Sherlock tilted his head back, defiance breaking through the mask and hardening his features. “Why should I listen to you?”

“Because, little brother,” Mycroft said, glaring down at Sherlock. “That would be the one thing I can't protect you from.”

“I don’t need you to _protect _me, Mycroft,” Sherlock spat, dripping venom as his upper lip curled back in a snarl. He felt a faint pang in his chest, knowing Mycroft was just trying to look out for him. Sherlock pushed the regret away, spine straightening with his resolve. His choice was made, and he chose John. It was too late to go back now.

Silence fell between them, and they stared at one another, neither willing to budge in the growing impasse. Mycroft finally turned his head away with a frustrated breath. Sherlock felt a distant twinge of triumph at the small victory.

“Fine, Sherlock.” Mycroft straightened his uniform, eyes flashing as he looked down at his younger brother. “Have it your way.” His voice dropped, mouth settling into a stiff line. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Sherlock looked away again, hands clenched into fists and teeth sinking hard into his bottom lip. "I don't need you to look after me, Mycroft," he said softly, his brow creasing. "I'm not a child anymore."

"I know, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, his tone just as quiet. "But that doesn't mean you can't still find trouble." Without waiting for Sherlock's response, he turned and walked away, leaving Sherlock to stew over his words.

Lighter footsteps replaced Mycroft's as they faded, and Sherlock looked up to see John approaching the table. He continued to stare with an unfocused gaze, catching movement from the corner of his eye. John's hand lifted, hovered, and settled lightly on Sherlock's upper back. The touch was feather-soft, and Sherlock tensed before relaxing. 

“Everything okay?” John asked quietly. Raising his head, Sherlock looked up into sharp blue eyes, darkened by concern and something Sherlock still couldn’t quite pinpoint. Part of him thought it might be guilt, but he pushed it away, ignoring the ache in his chest.

“Fine,” Sherlock replied, pressing a fingertip to the cold metal of the table. "Everything is fine." 

“Okay.” John swallowed and looked across the mess as Mycroft passed through the exit, his back stiff and rigid. John looked back down at Sherlock, still sitting with his eyes on his hands. “What did he want to talk about?”

Sherlock met John’s eyes again and hesitated. Mycroft’s words flickered through his head: _Stay away from John Watson. _

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied, forcefully casual. "It was nothing." Forehead creased, John appeared unconvinced, but Sherlock pretended not to notice. After a moment, John glanced toward the exit again, his expression pensive. Sherlock studied John's face in profile, a thought taking shape in the back of his mind.

_ What are you hiding, John? _he wondered, staring at the sharp edge of John's jaw, the tight creases bordering his mouth. As if noticing Sherlock's scrutiny, John looked his way and offered a small smile. Sherlock returned it carefully, schooling his expression into a mask for the first time since he and John became more than Captain and Lancer. 


	16. build you up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it took me all damn day to write three pages. I mean, I did other stuff, too. but still.

Greg woke in a slow, relentless pull to consciousness. Like a man lost at sea, he surfaced in fragments. Broke free from the cresting waves to catch snippets of reality: the faint din of voices, the steady whir of machines, the drone of a plane overhead. Buzzing through and overtop of it all was a low, humming whine that muffled his left ear, filling his head with a ceaseless cacophony.

His eyes flashed open to white and concrete, a fierce burn rising in his lungs with the taste of metal in his mouth. Somewhere nearby, an alarm blared, silenced seconds later by a gloved hand that moved into Greg's line of sight when he turned his head.

“Good, you’re awake." Greg blinked to clear his hazy vision, rolling a stiff neck with grinding tendons to look up at a young man with glasses and a relieved smile. 

“Mike,” he greeted, swallowing hard when his voice emerged as a rasping whisper. Clearing his throat, Greg tried again and startled a cough instead. He hacked and wheezed until his chest and shoulders ached, and he slumped heavily into the firm cot. 

Mike wordlessly passed him a plastic cup with a straw. When Greg tried to reach for it, he found his right arm immobilized in a sling. Grimacing, feeling awkward and off-balance, he extended his left to take the cup. Mike watched Greg sip with a critical eye, smiling at the grateful smile Greg offered as the cold water trickled down his dry throat. “The coughing is normal. Blast lung, very unpleasant.” 

Handing the cup back with shaking hands, Greg winced and dragged his back up against the pillows. “How long—” a ragged cough interrupted the question, and he sucked air until it stopped. His voice was weak when he tried again, asking, “How long was I out?” 

“A few days.” Mike took the cup and refilled it from a plastic jug, placing it on a small metal table beside the bed. “How do you feel?”

“Like something ripped through my chest and lit my lungs on fire.” Greg flinched as another coughing fit tore through him. He covered his mouth with a hand, rasping and frowning when he looked into his palm and saw red staining his skin. He looked to Mike, who nodded to indicate it was to be expected. Breathing in shallow snatches, Greg continued, “My head hurts, and I can’t really hear anything in my left ear, aside from a horrible whine.”

“All as expected, then,” Mike replied with grim humour, offering a tissue. He watched as Greg wiped the blood from his lips. “A concussion is almost certain, possibly even a mild traumatic brain injury. We’re going to have to monitor that. The ringing is a ruptured eardrum, which will take a while to heal.” Mike lifted a chart and read over as he went on, “Dislocated collar bone, hence the sling. Few broken ribs, various bruises and contusions.” Lowering the clipboard, Mike cocked his head to the side with a sympathetic smile. “You had a pneumothorax. After relieving the pressure, we put a tube in.” He gestured to Greg's side, which twinged in response. “It’s out now, and you're all stitched up. It’ll be uncomfortable and painful while it heals, so take it easy. We want to avoid nerve damage, if possible. Tricky spot.” Mike looked rueful, a slight wince narrowing his eyes behind his glasses. “You’re going to be out of action for at least a couple months, I'm afraid.” 

Greg sighed. The news was close to what he expected, but hearing it aloud didn't make it any easier to accept. He hid his frustration by taking a careful sip of water, clenching the flimsy plastic of the straw between his teeth. “I’ll try not to die of boredom,” he said, smiling weakly at Mike’s low chuckle. Before Mike could reply, a familiar voice interrupted.

“Good to see your sense of humour is still intact, Gregory.”

Mike turned, Greg following his gaze as Mycroft stepped into view. Standing at the edge of the cot with his hands clasped together before him, he looked professional and composed, every inch the reliable second-in-command. But Greg knew him too well to buy the facade, as convincing as it may seem. He read Mycroft's tension in his white knuckles, recognized the relief in the flicker of his eyes.

“Mycroft.” Greg shifted higher on the bed, wincing as another cough rattled through his tightly bandaged chest. “Surprised I didn’t wake up to find you ordering the medical staff about.”

Lips twitching with faint amusement, Mycroft inclined his head to Mike as the medic excused himself and slipped away. “Yes, well. You were asleep during all of that.” Grabbing a small stool, Mycroft pulled it over to the bed and perched on the edge. Elbows balanced on his knees, hands steepled beneath his chin, he leaned forward, studying Greg with a keen gaze. “It is a true comfort to see you awake, Gregory.” An undercurrent of warmth underlined the words, and Greg softened instantly.

“Bet you are,” he murmured, his lips curling in an easy smile. Reaching out, he tapped a fingertip against Mycroft’s intertwined fingers until his second-in-command loosened them, taking Greg's offered hand. 

Mycroft squeezed once, hard and firm, before releasing Greg's fingers with a light pat. Grinning, Greg sank back against the pillows, huffing out an audible breath of pain as his broken ribs shifted. He shook his head and smiled again in a silent response to Mycroft's concerned expression, and the other man settled. They sat in comfortable quiet for a moment, Greg's sporadic coughing interrupting the silence. Mycroft smoothed a dry palm over Greg's warm forehead and received a grateful look.

“How’s the crew?” Greg asked, breathing heavily after a particularly rough spasm. His face tensing, Mycroft shifted on the stool, shoulders stiffening as his relaxed demeanour fell away. His voice dropped, and he leaned forward. Even so, his words were nearly lost beneath the ringing in Greg's ear and the droning sounds of the medical facility.

“Tempers are high.” Mycroft grimaced and wet his lips with a frown. “Sholto and I caught Watson and Moran in a contest of who was a bigger, more testosterone-riddled moron.” 

Greg's eyes widened, his lips pressing together in a tense line. “They were fighting?” 

“Not quite," Mycroft said, sighing. "But near enough. I'm sure they would have if we hadn't chanced upon them when we did." He shook his head, directing a tight smile at someone passing by until they were gone. Turning back, Mycroft's eyes darted over Greg's face, his intent gaze nearly palpable. He opened his mouth, seemed to hesitate, and closed it again.

“I know that face,” Greg said, amused. It wasn't like Mycroft to mince words, not with him, and he knew it had to be because of his current state. He wiped a hand over his face, smoothing away sweat, and tried to look more sturdy than he felt. “Come on, out with it.”

A heavy sigh punctuated Mycroft's eye roll. “Never could keep anything from you, could I?” He said, feigning annoyance, though his tone was fond. Mycroft tilted his head down, eyes on the floor as the affectionate warmth faded into a terse admission. “I'm worried about Sherlock.” His fingers clenched on the bedsheets, only smoothing when Lestrade touched them gently. Mycroft nodded, shot him a grateful look, and continued, “I believe he and Watson are…" his lips pursed, "...involved." Raising his eyes, he studied Greg's face, his own taking on a helpless edge. "Sherlock didn't say so outright when I asked, but he has never been able to hide his emotions from me.” Mycroft's mouth tightened, his eyes flashing with controlled frustration. “I admit, Gregory, I'm... at a loss. I don't know how I can help him if he doesn't accept me as his ally."

"Do you think he doesn't think you're on his side?"

Mycroft uttered a hard laugh, a sharp little bark void of amusement. "I _ know _ he doesn't." Sighing, he rubbed his hands over his face. When he dropped them back into his lap, his eyes were red and wide, the shadows deepened beneath his tired gaze. "I'm his enemy, Gregory. Always have been. I've only tried to help him, tried to keep him safe, and Sherlock has only ever seen me as his nemesis. I have no doubt that he thinks the same now. I am, after all, the reason he is here." Regret tinged his tone, but Mycroft straightened his back with the resolution of a man who believes he has done the right thing. 

"Would things be different if he'd deployed of his own volition?" Greg asked gently, aching at the defeated light in Mycroft's eyes. 

Mycroft's mouth tightened. "I can't ask myself such questions. I did what I thought had to be done." A low sigh, Mycroft grimacing as his hands tensed. "He didn't leave me much of a choice." 

Chewing at his lip, Greg stared up at the ceiling, lost in thought as he processed Mycroft's words. Mycroft waited patiently, no doubt recognizing Greg's thoughtful expression for what it was. After all their years working together, Greg knew Mycroft could read him like a book. While Greg didn't possess the same attention to detail as his second-in-command, he knew Mycroft well enough to recognize when something was under his skin. Clearly, Sherlock, and by extension, Watson, had worked their way deep beneath the surface. 

“You said Sholto intervened with Watson and Moran?” At Mycroft’s nod, Greg's brow furrowed. “How did that go?”

Mycroft shrugged. “You know how it is with them. Sholto takes Watson’s side no matter what, no questions asked.” He sighed, studying his hands. “I don't believe he has any suspicion that Watson might be involved with a subordinate."

Picking at a loose thread on the blanket, Greg posed his next question carefully. “Do you think he would care if he did?” 

Silence met his question, and Greg knew better than to press. Switching tracks, he said, “Maybe it's time for another mission.” 

Mycroft’s head jerked up at the suggestion. “Without you?” Greg favoured him with a soft smile.

“Mycroft, I’m likely to be out of commission for several months. With Magnussen’s men grounded while Archer recovers, and Bolton killed in action, recon cannot fall solely to Sholto’s men.” Greg jerked his chin at the bed across the way, where Archer was an unmoving shape beneath a blanket. When he looked back to Mycroft, an idea occurred. “Speaking of, you should ask Magnussen if he can lend you a body, even up the numbers. Take Khatri or Walker. They’re both sound men." Greg nodded, decided and firm in his new plan. "Take the squad to the mountain ridge, see what you see. Might be just the thing to distract Watson and Moran until their tempers cool.”

Mycroft nodded as well, pulling his eyes away from Archer. “Yes, we'll do that. A reconnaissance mission may be just what I need to put some space between Sherlock and Watson. I will see if Magnussen is available to discuss borrowing a man.” Standing, Mycroft paused. “Before I go...” Reaching into his pocket, he held out his hand, palm up and open. Greg sat up, squinting as the light reflected off metal. Mycroft smiled as Greg took the gold ring from his hand. “I made sure to keep it safe. Wouldn't want you to lose it.” His voice was soft, and Greg touched his fingertips to Mycroft's warm palm as he retrieved the ring.

“Thank you," he said, returning the smile as the band slipped onto his left ring finger. Greg smoothed his thumb over the metal, warmed by Mycroft’s grasp. Nodding, Mycroft cast one final look at him before leaning forward to drop a brief, lingering kiss to Greg's forehead. It ended too soon, Mycroft turning on his heel and striding away. The line of his back was stiff, and Greg watched him go with an ache in his chest. Machines hummed and beeped around him as he fiddled with the ring, spinning it slowly on his finger to the sound of his wheezing lungs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _whispers, Mystrade_


	17. puppet on a string

After the mess hall incident, the urge to bury Watson beneath the sand, bloody and beaten, thrummed through Sebastian’s head like the beat of a marching song. Blood burning, jaw tense with unspent aggression, he paced the length of the camp, boots kicking up red sand underfoot. The sun, still early in its rise, blazed down. Perspiration beaded on the back of his neck, and Moran wiped it away with an impatient hand. 

He ached for revenge, the lack of confrontation leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. As foolish as fighting Watson would be, Moran still craved the temptation of violence. If he couldn't satisfy his need for retaliation with fists and feet, he would just have to find another way. 

Stalking past the barracks, he found Moriarty seated outside, scrubbing at his boots with a stiff brush. He caught Moran’s eye and blanched but did not look away. They shared a brief nod, and Moran continued on. 

Intriguing, that one. Once he dealt with Watson, Moran would make sure to dig a little deeper into Moriarty, see what might glimmer beneath his outer shell.

His frustration drove him toward the edge of the camp, the view of the open desert calling him onward. To his surprise, Sebastian came upon Sherlock. He was lounging by the blast barriers, looking into the distance with a pensive expression on his strange, sharp face. The sight of him made Sebastian smirk, and he paused. Teeth bared, Moran squinted at Sherlock's back, a plan forming distant and rough in his head, his mind sharpening.

_ Target acquired. _

If Sebastian couldn’t tear Watson apart, couldn't scatter him to the four corners of the desert, then he would settle for destruction in another form. Moran knew Watson cared for Sherlock, had caught them in a compromising position. Given Watson's reputation around camp, Sherlock might be just another in a long line of hook-ups, but Moran didn't think so. 

When Watson looked at Holmes, he looked like a man discovering the meaning of life, worshipful in his awe for the tall, gangly Lancer. It was, frankly, sickening, and Moran cracked his neck with a feral smile on his lips. 

If he played his cards right, he could deal a blow that would not only knock Watson down a peg but might show Sherlock where his place was in the pecking order. 

“Where’s your guard dog, pup?” Moran called, prowling up behind him. Sherlock’s head jerked up, and he turned slowly until he spotted Moran, stiffening. His pale eyes narrowed, mouth thinning into a tense line, and Moran grinned. “Hey, now,” Sebastian soothed, strolling up beside him with the expression of a circling shark. “There's no need to look like that.” He affected a chagrined pout, eyebrows rising. “No hard feelings, right?” 

Sherlock stared at him before frowning and looking away. He didn't reply, and Moran felt a surge of excitement. Grinning, Moran pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and tapped one out into his palm. He offered it to Sherlock, who hesitated before accepting the gift. Sherlock held it between two fingers but made no move to light the tip, watching as Moran kindled his own. 

“So," he said in a drawl, blowing a cloud of smoke into the warming air. "You and Watson, huh?" Cocking an eyebrow, Moran shot him a considering look. "That’s still going on?” 

Sherlock's flat expression twitched, but he didn’t respond, tilting his shoulders to turn away. Eyes narrowing, Sebastian leaned after him and blew smoke into the curls tangling at the base of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock startled and froze in place, his breath escaping in a soft huff.

“Look at me when I talk to you," Moran snapped, hands hooking into claws. Sherlock’s head whipped around, his eyes wide. 

“Why?” he shot back, upper lip curling. He had guts, Moran would give him that much. He licked his lips, and Sherlock's pale eyes flashed. “What do you want, Sebastian?” 

Cocking his head to the side, a crooked smile pulling at the corner of Moran's mouth. He tapped ash from the end of the cigarette, taking his time, and fixed Sherlock with a caustic look. “Got a bit of information for you.” 

“Yeah?” Sherlock looked away, something brief and vivid flashing over his face before his expression smoothed out again. “What makes you think I want to hear it?” 

Moran grinned and scuffed the tip of a boot in the sand, his head angled down. He had him now. Hook, line, and sinker, just had to reel him in. 

“Oh, I think you might," he replied breezily. Closing his lips around the filter of his cigarette, Moran flicked his tongue into the corner of his mouth and eyed Sherlock. He let his gaze drag over him from head to toe before returning to find his face flushed dark red. It was too easy, hardly a challenge to rattle the young soldier. "It's about Watson,” he added, grin widening when he caught a flicker in Sherlock’s eyes. “Mm, that got your attention, didn’t it? What's the matter? Trouble in paradise?" His lips curled back in a snarl. 

Sherlock’s jaw tightened, but he met Moran’s eyes with a level stare that made Moran want to sink his teeth into Sherlock’s throat. He breathed out, long and slow, controlling the excitement stirring in his body at the image of Sherlock bleeding out at his feet. Sebastian's body sang, buzzing with exaltation, muscles taut with rising fervour. 

“What about John?” Sherlock’s tone was challenging, and Moran took a slow drag of the cigarette, drawing the moment out. Sherlock quivered with desperate curiousity. Moran drank the sensation down with quiet glee, resisting the urge to lean in and inhale the scent of the life he could see fluttering in Sherlock's neck.

“Oh, you know… just all that business between him and Sholto.” Moran tilted his head, cigarette balanced between two fingers, and raised his eyebrows. “Watson loves him some Major, _let me tell you.” _His eyes went round with false surprise, and he forced a gasp. “Just like you and him. Fancy that." He shook his head, smiling. "Bit of a pattern, huh?” 

Sherlock stiffened, standing rigid as anger burned in his eyes. “I don’t believe you,” he said in a strained voice. But something shifted in his face, and Moran grinned. 

_ Bingo. _

“Yes, you do,” he said with confidence, barely keeping the smugness out of his reply. “You’ve got doubts about our good Captain Watson.” His eyes narrowed, and the grin abruptly dropping off his face. “And you should, Sherlock. You _really _should.”

Silence met his words as Sherlock looked into the distance, at the endless stretch of desert. His teeth worried at his lower lip, and Moran bit back a laugh. 

“What’s wrong, little pup?" he asked in a false display of concern. He reached out and smoothed the back of his knuckles over Sherlock's bicep. Sherlock moved a step away, shooting him a furious look. Moran chuckled, tapping ash from the edge of his cigarette. "I think you _do _believe me. What is it? Tell Uncle Seb. Something not sitting quite right with your good man?” His lips curved upward at the corners, eyes half-open beneath heavy lids.

Chin jerking up, Sherlock tried to stare him down, but Moran refused to neglect the challenge. He just licked his lips and held his smile, taking another drag.

“I don’t believe you,” Sherlock repeated. There was less conviction in his voice this time, and his hands shook.

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Moran barked a laugh, leaning back against the concrete wall of the blast barrier. Affecting a sad pout, he blew a smoke ring into the air, fixed Sherlock with a sharp look, and delivered the killing blow. “Watson’s the camp bicycle.” Sebastian sucked on his cigarette. He watched the haze emerging from his mouth fade into the air, a brief pause stretching out before he added, “Hell, even_ I’ve t_aken a turn.”

Sherlock’s face paled, the certainty falling away. He recoiled immediately, disgust, confusion, and shock passing over his face. The mask was gone, shattered, revealing a deep vulnerability beneath. Feeling a thrill of victory, Moran smirked.

“I guess you didn’t,” he said, flicking ash onto the sand. “Well, I hate to break it to you, kid, but you’re nothing special. Just Watson’s latest conquest.” Dropping the cigarette, Sebastian ground it beneath a bootheel. “He’ll be bored of you before long, and then what’ll you have?” His eyes darted over Sherlock’s stunned, stricken face. “I suppose you’ll still have big brother, though that’s not much of a comfort to you, is it?” The look Sherlock shot his way was all the answer he needed, and Moran snickered. “Sorry, baby boy, but that’s the truth of it. Watson’s a player, and you’re just the kid who got played.”

Another thrill rolled through him as he saw Sherlock caving into himself before the walls came up. But it was too late, and Moran caught the way his face crumpled, his eyes half-closing in a wince. It was beautiful.

He tilted forward, catching Sherlock's chin in his hands. Sherlock glared and tried to shift away, but Moran tightened his grip. "Don't worry, baby," he breathed, their faces inches apart, Sherlock's eyes wide and wary. "I'm here for you if you need _ comfort." _Grinning, he tilted closer and dragged his tongue over Sherlock's cheek, up to his temple. Sherlock jolted and flinched away, breaking the hold as he stumbled back. Moran snorted and winked, breathing a dark little chuckle at the expression of revulsion on Sherlock's face. 

Sherlock swung away from him, hands clenching to fists as he walked off with unsteady steps. His back was rigid, the lines of his tall body tense and stiff. It had been almost too easy. 

Laughing, Moran watched him go. _Y__our move, Watson. _

The light scuff of a boot made him turn. Moriarty stepped up beside him, looking after Sherlock’s disappearing figure. “What was that about?” he asked, and Moran laughed again.

“Planting some seeds,” he replied, eyes flicking over Moriarty's perplexed expression. The laughter died on Sebastian's lips, his green eyes turning steely. “Watson needs to pay for the mess hall.”

“You didn’t even fight,” Moriarty pointed out, and Moran bared his teeth.

“Doesn’t matter, makes it even worse.” Sebastian rolled his shoulders, lifting his face to the sky. “He challenged me. I'm not going to let that slide.”

His furrowed, Moriarty dug the tip of his boot against the blast barrier. “He’s a Captain." He shot Moran an uncertain glance. "I doubt you could hurt him without consequence.”

“No, I can't,” Moran agreed, combing hair back from his face with agitated fingers. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t take away something he thinks is his.” Moran cocked his hand into the shape of a gun at Moriarty's questioning look, pointed it in Sherlock's direction, and jerked it upward in a firing motion. His arm dropped, and he caught a flicker of unease in Moriarty's dark eyes. It faded as quickly as it came, admiration taking its place.

“Clever,” Moriarty said, his voice low and respectful. Grinning, Moran reached out and gripped his face with rough hands. Palms cupping Jim's cheeks, Moran smeared a thumb hard across Moriarty’s cheek.

“There you are,” he breathed, pressing the edge of his nail into the skin beneath his thumb. Moriarty winced but held still, looking up at Moran with his lips parted around his jagged breath. “I knew there was a darkness inside you," Moran continued in a rough purr, "I’ve been waiting _so long _for it to come out and play.”

Moriarty blinked up at him, tongue darting out to wet his lips as his face flushed beneath Moran's fingers. The corners of his lips twisting up into a sneer, Moran bent and kissed him, stealing heavy breaths into his own lungs. Moriarty stiffened and went slack as he clung to him, heart leaping in his chest where it pressed to Moran's.

Sinking his teeth into Moriarty’s bottom lip, Moran tasted blood. Tongue flicking out to accept the offering, he grinned and tugged Moriarty closer. 


	18. conspire to ignite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from _Starlight_ by Muse
> 
> _My life,  
You electrify my life  
Let's conspire to ignite  
All the souls that would die just to feel alive_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the angst in this chapter 😬

“Another recon patrol?” Sitting on the edge of his cot, John looked up from lacing his boots to frown at Mycroft. “But we're down a man. Is that wise?"

“Commander Lestrade's orders,” Mycroft replied coolly as he studied John's face with narrowed eyes. John offered a confused look, and Mycroft turned away, his lips pursed. “I want you up and ready to go in an hour. Ajay Khatri will be joining us. I will inform the others.” 

He strode from the tent, John looking after him and mulling over Mycroft's clipped tone. Boots laced, he pushed to his feet and exited the barracks. The early morning air brushed over his short hair, still edged with the lower temperatures of night. John tilted his face into the breeze and pulled in a deep breath. 

Eyes opening, he saw Moran and Moriarty on their way to the mess hall. Heads bent together, they looked to be engaged in an intense conversation. Moran’s hand hovered at Moriarty’s elbow, Jim looking up at Sebastian with an expression of awe. The sight of them made John's stomach turn, and he narrowed his eyes before turning his attention to the tall man trailing along after them.

His head bowed, Sherlock walked with slow feet, sand scattering over his boots with each step. He looked miserable, shoulders slumped, gaze pinned to the ground. As John watched, Moran glanced over his shoulder and said something that caught Sherlock's attention. Sherlock flinched and looked away quickly, colour rushing into his face. Fury sparked in John’s chest as Moran's lips twisted into a sneer. Sebastian caught his eye, the smirk widening into a feral grin as if feeling John's anger from a distance. 

John's hands curled into fists, and he shoved them into his pockets, taking quick strides to teach Sherlock’s side. Catching up, he turned and walked backwards in front of Sherlock, simultaneously trying to grab his attention and shield him from Moran's eyes. 

“Hey,” he greeted softly, shooting a look over his shoulder. Moran had turned away, once more focused on Moriarty, who was still staring up at him with adoration in his face. Wetting his lips, John turned back to Sherlock, swivelling until they were walking side by side. When he didn't receive a reply, John reached out, his fingers brushing Sherlock's shoulder. “Hey,” he tried again, blinking when Sherlock stiffened and shrugged him off. Quickening his pace, Sherlock left John behind and slipped into the mess hall ahead of him. 

Scowling, John faltered. Something heavy and hot settled into his stomach, and he swallowed around an unexpected tightness in his throat. Alarmed, John followed, pausing to study the mess hall from the doorway. He spotted Sherlock, seated at a table separate from Moran and Moriarty. There was a single piece of dry toast in front of him, and he picked at the crust with long fingers, eyes fixed as he stared at the table. 

An ache burning in his chest, John skirted the breakfast offerings and worked his way over to Sherlock. This early, the mess hall was almost empty, the few people inside eating with sleepy determination. John passed by mostly-empty tables and quiet soldiers, stopping in front of Sherlock, who was still picking apart his pathetic breakfast. 

“Sherlock?” No reply. John tried again, bewildered hurt rising in his mouth. _“Sherlock.” _

Sherlock looked up with a start, blinking rapidly as his gaze refocused. His expression flickered then went flat, his eyes guarded. “Hello, John," he said in a bland, detached voice. The distance in his greeting made John wince and step back, feeling abrupt space growing between them. 

“Sherlock... did something happen?” He couldn't keep the uncertainty from his wavering words, and John's left hand shook until he clenched it into a fist. Sherlock studied him with stony indifference, one brow raised. 

“I don’t know, John,” he replied slowly, fingers clenching and ripping through the bread as something erratic flashed across his face. _“Did _something happen?” Sherlock threw the words at him with surprising anger. 

John stared, dumbfounded by the venom. He nearly took a step back, catching himself at the last second. Firming his stance, he shook his head and blinked, the hurt feeling in his chest growing. "Sherlock, I don't know... I don't understand." Feeling helpless, he stared down at Sherlock, willing him to look up and explain. But Sherlock just tore his destroyed bread into smaller pieces, seemingly ignoring John. Only the slight frown on his brow betrayed his emotions. Before John could try again, a voice drew their attention, and John looked over his shoulder.

“Sherlock! Watson! Let’s go, it's time to move out.” Mycroft’s tone was strict and commanding, and John frowned. Turning back, he saw Sherlock on his feet, the plate of dissected bread in hand. His eyes met John’s, and there was evident distress in them, darkening the pale irises. He seemed to be waiting for something. John opened his mouth, blinked, and couldn't find his words.

His expression shifting into a blank facade, Sherlock pushed past him, their shoulders brushing. Dumping the toast into the garbage, he left the plate in the dish bin and walked away without looking back.

* * *

The drive from camp was hell. Their replacement Rover ran smooth and sure, but John felt like curling up beneath the wheels and letting them crush him into the sand. He stared across at Sherlock, who avoided looking at him. After mounting the Rover, John left an empty seat beside him, looking up at Sherlock with pleading eyes, only to be ignored as Sherlock dropped down beside Moriarty. Khatri had taken the open place at John’s side, oblivious to the tension mounting between John and Sherlock, and John had hung his head. 

Why was Sherlock avoiding him? Was it because of what John did in the mess hall, standing up to Moran? He never meant to lose his cool, but hearing Moran speak to Sherlock that way... John lost control. Now, he stared at Sherlock, feeling forlorn, wondering if he had ruined everything when they'd only just begun. 

Distressed confusion vibrated through John's body, pressing uncomfortable pressure against his chest. Sherlock refused to look at him, his jaw tense and stiff as he stared toward the front of the vehicle, avoiding John's eyes. Memories flooded through John's thoughts. Memories of them, him and Sherlock, intertwined in the desert air. Pressed together slick and wet in the shower. Sherlock melting against him as John slid deep into his pliant, open body. The imagery collided with thoughts of threatening Moran and John’s stomach twisted. 

He thought he might be sick. The Rover pushed through the desert, and John felt like he was caving inward, staring at his boots with an arm locked across his stomach to try and hold himself together.

If he lost Sherlock, had already lost him, John didn't know what he might do.

When he finally raised his head, nauseated, Moran caught his eye. Standing behind the mounted gun, he held John’s gaze, his mouth curling upward. Filled with the urge to leap up, to knock the smirking man over the side of the moving vehicle, John bit down on his lip and looked away.

* * *

The Rover rumbled to a stop in sight of a mountain range before Mycroft turned to address the men in the back. “We're stopping here for the night. I want to go over the map and check our gear. Everyone out.” 

Moran jumped over the side of the vehicle, rolling onto the balls of his feet when he hit the sand. Moriarty followed with Khatri at his side. Sherlock stood, flinching when John came up behind and gently gripped his elbow. 

“Sherlock,” he murmured, trying to catch the other man’s eye. Sherlock stared straight ahead, and John sighed, tightening his grip in a surge of desperation. “Can... please, can we talk?” Sherlock didn't turn toward him, and John's jaw clenched. He tried again, voice dwindling to a whisper, “I just... I don’t know what’s going on, and I want... _please, _will you talk to me?” John swallowed hard around the words as the caught in his throat. His heart hammered in his chest, and he found himself drifting closer. His chest pressed into Sherlock's rigid back, and Sherlock shivered.

He slowly turned his head, his expression wary as he studied John’s face. John stared back at him, trying to convey his need with his burning eyes. 

"Please," John breathed, lips turning down at the corner. Sherlock's expression flickered, darkened, then smoothed out before he shook him off, leaving John to stare after him with a bitter taste in his mouth and an ache in his chest. 

Staring at his boots, John listened as Sherlock stepped out of the Rover, unable to watch him go. His hands curled into tight fists, and he sucked in an unsteady breath, chest constricting. His vision wavered, blurred and shifted, and John pressed his teeth hard into his bottom lip.

Mycroft's shout broke into his hazy dismay, “Captain Watson!” John shook himself, looking up to find the second-in-command glaring at him from the sand. “Care to join us?” Mycroft asked sharply, and John hurried to step out of the vehicle.

“Yes, sir, of course.” He hit the sand and moved to Mycroft’s side, looking at the map spread on the hood of the Rover. Mycroft's mouth tensed into a thin line before he turned back to the others. In that one gesture, John saw Sherlock. The similarity felt like a blow to the stomach, making John struggle with the urge to curl into himself as an ache burned beneath his ribcage. His eyes flickered to Sherlock as Mycroft began to outline the plan for the next day, the words washing over John as meaningless noise. 

Khatri and Mycroft stood between them, Sherlock’s arms folded tight across his chest. His feet shifted in the sand, and John watched him clench his jaw, rubbing at his arms, his body rigid. Sherlock's thumb dug hard against the inner corner of his left arm, pressing into the elbow through his flak jacket before skating down to dig into his forearm. John frowned at the strange tic, brow creasing. He tried once more to catch Sherlock's eye, but the lancer just dug harder and stared resolutely forward. 

Sighing, John turned his focus back to the task at hand. He watched Mycroft’s finger trace the mountain ridge on the map and bit back the urge to scream. 

* * *

The men spent the day sorting through gear, cleaning weapons and filling clips. Even as he worked, John’s chest felt like something had sunk claws deep into his skin. Sunk deep enough to rip at his heart and lungs, pulling and tearing until it left him gasping for breath. After trying and failing to engage with Sherlock, only to be rebuffed for the third time, John retreated. 

Now, sitting in the sand with his legs stretched out in front of him, John loaded bullets into a clip with numb fingers. He stared unseeingly at the metal in his hands, working with mechanical, automatic motions. Whenever John felt the urge to pause and look up at Sherlock, rubbing gun oil into his rifle a few feet away, he bit hard on his tongue. Looked aside and redirected his focus. He felt Khatri's eyes on his skin and caught the soldier shooting sideways glances at both him and Sherlock a few times. John ignored him and shoved a round into the clip with more force than necessary. The metal scraped his skin, and he cursed softly under his breath at the sting.

The smug looks Moran sent his way were far harder to ignore, and John's blood boiled with rising anger.

As the day stretched on, the sun beat down on them. Pausing to remove his jacket, John wiped the back of his hand over his forehead, smearing sand and sweat over his skin. He shook the perspiration away and closed his eyes for a moment to give them respite from the bright glare. His thoughts pounced as if waiting for him to let his guard down. 

A growing certainty rose in John. He thought the answer to Sherlock’s distance rested in Moran’s snide smiles and curled lip. He couldn't know what had occurred or had been said but having someone to blame and target his building anger helped John feel anchored.

When Mycroft finally dismissed them for dinner, John stuffed the filled clips into his bag, pulled his jacket on, and rose to his aching feet. Moran wandered away to light a cigarette, and John followed with his hands clenched at his sides. He waited until they were out of earshot from the others and took his chance.

Grabbing Moran's shoulder, John's demand ripped out of his mouth in a rush, “What did you say to him?” He reeled Moran around and hauled him closer to look him in the face, to see the wild light in his green eyes. Despite Moran’s height advantage, John’s fury filled him with angry strength, and his arms flexed beneath the thick fabric of his flak jacket.

Moran smiled, unruffled by the anger vibrating from John’s hand on his arm. “You'll have to be a little more specific, Captain,” he said in a drawl, one eyebrow rising. John’s fingers twitched and tightened, pressing into tanned skin. Moran had ditched his jacket and armour, leaving him in nothing but his fatigue bottoms and a sweat-darkened undershirt. He appeared unperturbed by John's aggression, puffing calmly on his cigarette and blowing smoke between them. John narrowed his eyes, refusing to cough as the acrid exhale filled his lungs. 

“Don't play dumb with me,” John warned in a sharp breath, yanking until Moran bent toward him. _“Sherlock._ What did you say to him?” John’s mouth twisted in a snarl, his words shifting into a growl as adrenaline spilled into his blood. Moran’s upper lip pulled back, mirroring the expression, and his reply hissed out through bared teeth. 

“I just told him_ the truth, _Captain.” His voice warped the title into an insult.

“What the fuck does that mean?” John demanded, fingers clenching until the skin beneath his hand turned white, then red.

Moran’s lips smoothed and lifted, a half-smile replacing the snarl. “Oh, you know, all the things everyone else already knows. Just about you and your adventures through the beds of commanding officers.” His eyes glittered at John's scowl. “Poor Sherlock had no idea. I just filled him in where you hadn't. About Sholto, and all your other... adventures." Moran winked, dragging his tongue slowly over his bottom lip as he looked over Jonh's rigid posture. "I made sure to let him know about our own little romp. Remember that, Captain?” Eyes narrowed above his crooked sneer, Moran reached out and drifted his fingertips over John's jaw, making John growl and jerk back. “Remember how I made you beg for it?” His darkened gaze held John's, and his hand dropped back to his side. 

"Fuck you," John breathed, a snarl contorting his face. "Stay away from him, Sebastian. I swear to God, if you don't, I'll rip you apart." 

Moran affected a pout, though his eyes glittered, betraying the facade. "John, your words wound me," he replied, voice dropping to a croon as he reached for John's face again, his hand batted away violently by John. "I thought you might want another go, now that your latest fuck toy is no longer interested."

Teeth clicking together as he bared his teeth, John’s free hand twitched, balling into a fist. He began to draw it back when a hand fell on his shoulder. The voice that spoke from just behind him made him freeze. “Stand down, Captain Watson.”

Startled, his fury ebbing enough for the red haze to fade from his vision, John released Moran and looked up at Mycroft. His mouth a tense line, Mycroft stared hard at John, his displeasure clear on his face. 

"I..." John closed his eyes and opened them quickly, glaring at Moran before looking back to Mycroft.

“Stand down,” Mycroft repeated firmly, and John stepped back from Moran, trying to ignore his smug expression. 

"Fine," John bit out through clenched teeth, only adding, "Sir," as an afterthought. Shoving his hands into his pockets, refusing to stay and receive his dressing down, John marched away. He walked until the Rover was a beige smudge wavering on the horizon and stared at the ground. His body shook, fingers curling and uncurling with the urge to hit and grab and hurt. He dug his fists into his thighs and bit hard on his tongue as his head pounded.

Damn Moran and his big mouth, and fuck Mycroft for intervening where John had every right to settle their feud. He was trying to protect _Mycroft's _brother, didn't the man give a fuck about Sherlock?

A wave of helplessness and distress washed over him. Sucking in a steadying breath, feeling like he was suffocating in the hot desert air, John pushed a fist against his mouth. He sank his teeth hard against his knuckles and blinked in rapid bursts until his vision blurred, eyes burning. 

He had to fix this, needed to make things right. 

Shoulders slumping, John's resolve crumbled. Every attempt to engage Sherlock in conversation had been futile. If he refused to listen to John, refused to even stay in his presence, how could John explain anything? In telling the truth, so simple, Moran had planted the perfect seeds of doubt in a still-developing relationship that was already tenuous. John had no doubts about the strength of his feelings for Sherlock, but with the risk of their ranks, the essential nature of having to hide their feelings, it was hard to make that clear.

Sherlock needed to hear the truth from John. The entirety of it, the unedited version, the side Moran had failed to share. It was true that John's actions didn't speak to a strong character, but there were things Sherlock didn't know. Things he should, if there was any chance of John getting him back. 

Whether or not he deserved to have him back was something John tried not to linger on. If he went down that path, he would never stop, and it was, ultimately, Sherlock's decision to make.

Even if the truth didn't paint John in a positive light, it still needed to be spoken. Because Sherlock was worth it. He deserved John’s honesty, even if it meant John might lose him. 

He was worth the effort.

Resolved to tell Sherlock everything, John turned back toward camp. He straightened his shoulders as he walked, preparing himself for Mycroft's anger, for Moran's sneers, for Sherlock's continued silence. Whatever came, John would take it in stride. And, as soon as he could, he would tell Sherlock everything. John would lay his cards on the table and wait for whatever judgement may fall. And, if he lost Sherlock, at least John could say he tried.

* * *

The sun sank in slow increments, shooting vibrant colours across the blue sky. Perched against the side of the Rover, John watched it fade below the darkening horizon, an unexpected sense of peace filtering through the maelstrom of uncertainty in his head. He tensed as a voice spoke behind him, catching his focus.

“John?” 

He turned slowly to find Sherlock standing a few feet away, his hands fidgeting with the Velcro securing the front of his combat armour. “Hi,” John replied cautiously, keeping his voice soft in case he spooked Sherlock. There was an edge of hope underlying the careful greeting that he couldn't entirely erase. 

Sherlock didn't speak, and they looked at one another with an unspoken chasm stretching out between them until Sherlock took a hesitant step forward, then another. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again, but nothing coming out. Eyes narrowed, he halted and stared at John. Holding his breath, too scared to speak lest he scare Sherlock off, John waited. His heart pounded in his chest and sank when Sherlock shook his head and turned as if to walk away. 

As if drawn by an invisible tether, John followed, feet kicking up sand. Striding forward, he caught Sherlock’s upper arms, turning him gently toward him. “Please, Sherlock," he breathed, voice threatening to crack. "Please, don't walk away." His grip tightened, and he drew Sherlock closer, Sherlock moving forward as if unable to help himself. Wariness flickered in his beautiful face, and John's throat tightened, his next words emerging strained as he pleaded, "Let me explain.” Sherlock fell still, standing stiffly in John's grasp. 

“Explain what, John?” he asked, barely above a whisper. “Are you going to tell me Sebastian lied? That he made it all up?” Jaw tightening, Sherlock’s eyes flashed with wounded anger. “If that's the case, I’d rather walk away then hear you lie to me.”

John shook his head, squeezing Sherlock’s arms gently. “No,” he said emphatically, shaking his head._ “No, _Sherlock. I want you to know the truth... _all _of it.” After only a brief hesitation, the last slipped out, and John stared hard into Sherlock’s doubting eyes. He squeezed again, his smile desperate and imploring. “Please, just... let me explain.”

Sherlock's expression was indecipherable as he studied John’s face. His lips pursed, and he finally nodded with a quick jerk of his chin. A relieved smile spreading over his face, John struggled with the urge to pull him close and kiss Sherlock’s unhappy, downturned mouth until it was soft and yielding. Instead, he tilted forward, pressed his cheek against Sherlock's, and breathed him in. It could be the last time Sherlock let him so close, and John couldn't help his greedy little brush of lips against Sherlock's jaw as he leaned back. Pushing down a spike of lust, John released Sherlock’s arms and stepped away. He gestured into the distance, asking, “Join me?” 

Shooting him an assessing look, his cheeks faintly flushed from John's previous proximity, Sherlock nodded again. He followed John away from the makeshift camp, falling into step at his side, keeping careful distance between them. John tried to ignore the separation, but it worked under his skin and made his throat tighten. Licking his lips, breathing unevenly, John stopped and turned toward Sherlock once they were away from camp, but could still see the Rover. He glanced at Sherlock's face, took in his tense expression, and dropped his gaze down to his hands.

“I know Sebastian told you some of my... er... reputation,” John winced but pressed on, "but I'm not sure exactly how much he said—"

Sherlock interrupted, speaking over him with a deadened voice, his face tilted up toward the emerging stars. “He said you were involved with Sholto, and likely others. He said...” Sherlock’s voice broke, and he choked, leaning away when John instinctively reached out to touch him. John’s hand dropped, and Sherlock went on. “He said you two slept together or at least insinuated it. And…” Jaw clenched, eyes closing, Sherlock pulled in an irregular gasp of air. “He implied I was just the next in a long line of others. Another Watson ‘conquest,' I believe he said.” He ground the last word out through his teeth, white-knuckled hand gripping his thigh. 

John’s chest tightened, and he struggled as his emotions twisted, fury mixing with horror. 

“No,” John finally managed, forcing the words past numb lips. “No. _ No, _ Sherlock. Never." John reached out again and took hold of Sherlock's shoulders, tightening his fingers when Sherlock tried to shrug him off. He had to get the words out, had to reach Sherlock where he had withdrawn. Desperate, the words spilled out as John shifted a hand upward, cupping Sherlock's face in his palm. Sherlock stiffened at the contact, but he didn't move away. John's smile was a tenuous little thing, buoyed by the lack of rejection. “Sherlock," he whispered, skating his thumb over the sharp edge of a cheekbone, "you are _not... that._ God, Sherlock, no, it's not... I'm not—I would _never..." _Lips pursed together, John struggled with the urge to murder Moran with his bare hands, and his need to explain. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing thoughts. Sherlock's skin was warm and soft under his hand, and John stroked gently over his cheek, straining to ground himself. 

Sherlock's expression was watchful and wary when he opened his eyes again, his lips turned down at the corners. John pulled in another deep breath, hands gentling, thumb smoothing lightly over rough fabric where he gripped Sherlock's shoulder. 

“You mean more to me than anyone,” John finally whispered, looking into Sherlock’s eyes as he spilled his guts. “God, Sherlock, you—you are _everything. _It’s nothing like what Moran said, _ I swear.” _ Slipping his hand down Sherlock’s arm, John laced their fingers together. Sherlock let him, lips parting as his loud breathing filled the dark. He swayed toward John, and John did the same. As they drifted closer, John brushed his fingertips over the curve of Sherlock's cheek. “Christ, Sherlock. You’re gorgeous.” 

A lovely flush warmed the skin beneath John's fingers before Sherlock's eyes dropped away. He looked at their interlaced hands with a frown. When he looked up again, the blush faded. “Is it true?” he asked in a whisper, the skin between his eyes wrinkling. “You and Sholto, is it true?” 

John bit his lip and stroked his thumb over the little crease, trying to smooth it away. But it persisted, and John nodded, tracking the minute flickers of emotion in Sherlock’s face. He saw shock, dismay and hurt until Sherlock’s eyes dropped again, breaking the connection. John pressed a finger to his chin, tilting his head up to find his gaze. Something dark and wounded stared back at him from Sherlock's eyes, and John winced. 

“Yes, it’s true,” he admitted, shaking his head as Sherlock opened his mouth. “Just hear me out, okay?” he pleaded, tracing the pouty curve of Sherlock's bottom lip, begging him to listen. Sherlock nodded slowly, and John sighed out a relieved breath. He stared at Sherlock's mouth as he spoke, thumb sweeping the soft skin beneath Sherlock's lip in a slow, repeated movement. “It was before you came, and it _ended _before you came. There was no overlap. I promise that there hasn’t been anything between James Sholto and me since.”

“Was it serious?” Sherlock's voice was barely more than a whisper.

John licked his lips and closed his eyes with a wince. “At the time, yes. It was. I... I might have loved him. Or close to." Opening his eyes again, John's lips shifted into a small, sad smile. “I didn't know yet, didn't know what it could feel like, to want someone the way I want you." Sherlock's eyes widened minutely, lashes flickering in a startled blink, and John cleared his throat, trying to regain his control. With every exhale, Sherlock's breath warmed his thumb, and John kept petting the soft skin of his lower lip as he went on, "We were together for a year. Kept it quiet. Then James was promoted to Major, and we ended it. It was too risky, with him being my superior. James... he worked so hard for his promotion. I can't say I was ecstatic at having to end things, but I understood." John blew out a loud breath through his nose, eyes tensing at the corners. "I still understand.” 

Sherlock looked down at their hands again, tracing a finger along the curve of John’s wrist. John shivered at the light touch, forcing himself to focus as Sherlock asked, “Who ended it?” 

“It was mutual," John said, lips quirking in a hard twist. "No hard feelings. At first, it wasn’t easy, but it was for the best, and we’re still friends. It's not like it was before we were together, but it is what it has to be.” John shrugged. “It is what it is, and it’s not going to be something more again.” 

Sherlock was quiet, his expression contemplated as he studied John's hand. He frowned, and his finger danced lightly along an old, faded scar on John’s skin. “And the others?” He looked up briefly before dropping his eyes again. "Moran said you... well, he used rather vulgar language, but he insinuated there were many others."

Wincing, John smiled a rueful, self-degrading smile. “Ah, yeah..." He exhaled loudly again, watching his thumb move beneath Sherlock's mouth. "The breakup, while mutual, wasn’t exactly enjoyable. I may have, ah, had my fair share of rebound hookups.” Sherlock’s head lifted, pale eyes flickering over John’s face, searching. John waited for his judgement with his heart in his throat until Sherlock nodded, and John relaxed. The tension returned when Sherlock spoke again. 

“Moran.” Sherlock turned his head and looked off to the side, his back stiff. The movement forced John to drop his hand to his side, and he plucked at the hem of his jacket with nervous fingers as Sherlock added, “Was that true, too?” 

“Yes,” John said immediately, firm in his bid for complete honesty. His face darkened, hand clenched tight around rough fabric. “But it was a mistake. I was drunk, and it was a mistake.” Sherlock turned back to face him again, surprised flickering over his face as John spat the words with sudden venom. “He’s a sick fuck, Sherlock," he said fervently, stomach rolling with revulsion. "I know he's a monster, Sherlock, and I promise you that it only took that one messed up night to realize just how dangerous Moran is.” 

Lifting a hand, Sherlock cupped John’s face in his palm. His eyebrows drew together in a pained expression of concern. “Did he hurt you?” he asked softly, fingernails scratching lightly over John's beard as he petted John's cheek.

John looked away. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he replied, his voice low and angry. “I don’t want to talk about him, not anymore.” Leaning forward, John closed his eyes and pressed their foreheads together, praying Sherlock wouldn't withdraw. He didn't, and John sighed, some of the rigid tension easing in his shoulders. “He’s not important," he whispered, covering Sherlock's hand on his face with his own, tilting his cheek into the touch. "You _are. _I’m not going to let him come between us. It’s that simple.” 

His eyes sliding shut, chest rising as he breathed in deeply, Sherlock murmured, “If you and Sholto... if you broke up because it was too risky…” Words trailing off, his eyes flashed open, eyelashes brushing John’s skin before he leaned back slightly. “How are we not the same? How are you not putting yourself at risk here, now, with me?” 

John's reply was instant, a fervent, “I don’t care.” The declaration was adamant, spoken without question. “I don’t _ care, _ Sherlock," he repeated earnestly, closing the distance once more to breathe in the scent of Sherlock at his throat. The smell of him, of gun oil and sweat and spice, made John swallow back a groan. "You _are, _Sherlock. You... you mean so much more than some title. More than this entire stupid war.” John nuzzled at the curve of Sherlock’s jaw, his words taking on a desperate edge. “You’re all that matters. You’re everything, Sherlock. I _need_ you.” 

“John…” Sherlock’s voice trailed off, his breath warm where it brushed John’s skin. Tipping his head back, John found Sherlock’s eyes looking back at him, soft and tender, and his heart stuttered. Leaning in, John brushed his lips along Sherlock’s cheek. He slid a hand to the nape of Sherlock's neck, up into his curls, fingers flexing and drawing him lower.

“You are everything,” John repeated desperately, brushing another kiss over Sherlock's flushed skin. "God, Sherlock, I would do anything for you. Please, I'm sorry I didn't tell you everything myself. I don't want to lose you, I _can't _lose you. I... I need you, so much, I need you." The words a whispered chant on his lips, John kissed his way over Sherlock's brow, pressed his lips to his eyelids when Sherlock's eyes closed, and he melted into John’s touch. His head tilted down, and John pulled him nearer, wrapping an arm around his waist, bringing their bodies tightly together.

"You are everything," he whispered, tangling his fingers in Sherlock's hair and finding his mouth. Their lips brushed, slid together and parted, the taste of Sherlock's sighing exhale making John's knees weak. "Everything, everything... my Sherlock." 

The moonlight painted silver through Sherlock’s dark hair, and John kissed him like it was the very first time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed (or not), but there is now a final chapter count for this fic. I have the rest of the chapters planned out, which hopefully means it won't take me too much longer to finish! I'm thinking it'll be about 32 chapters by the end, give or take. My plan is to focus on this fic and get it finished, then move onto _immediate and inglorious_ (Dark/Serial Killer John fic). Doesn't mean I won't update that one in the meantime, but _combat fatigue_ will be my main focus until it's finished.
> 
> Thanks for reading, please feel free to leave comments if you have any! 😊
> 
> -Paige


	19. give no quarter

The heavy desert air was thick with heat against his skin as Mycroft stepped around the bulk of the Rover, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. Lifting his head, hand cupped around the end of the smoke to light it, he froze, struck by two things simultaneously. The first was the brilliance of the moon, illuminating the dark in a pearlescent parody of daylight. The second was his younger brother, caught up in John Watson's arms with their mouths pressed together. Sherlock clung to John like a drowning man, and Mycroft cursed at the confirmation of his suspicions.

He wasn't entirely shocked, finding them like this. Watson and Sherlock had clearly avoided one another during the day. When Mycroft interrupted a second testosterone-fuelled, almost-fight between Moran and Watson, he knew something was coming. As Sherlock had often and reluctantly admitted in their younger years, Mycroft was never wrong. Now, staring at the two men before him, he knew he should have trusted his instincts.

John and Sherlock finally surfaced from their desperate, clinging kiss, Sherlock's face cradled in John's hands. As Mycroft watched, John lifted onto his toes to press his lips to Sherlock's forehead, the tenderness of his action evident in how Sherlock's eyelids fluttered. He gazed down at John with adoration, and Mycroft ran a hand through his reddish hair with his gritting his teeth together.

_Sherlock,_ he thought, _you complete and utter idiot. _Flicking the unlit cigarette into the sand, Mycroft strode forward. The fact that neither Sherlock nor John noticed his approach spoke volumes to how caught up they were in one another. As they leaned into one another again, eyes sliding closed until Mycroft barked, “William Sherlock Scott Holmes!”

The result was instant, Sherlock and John breaking apart with panic on their faces. Sherlock’s wide eyes fixed on Mycroft over John's shoulder, and John turned, his expression stricken.

“Sergeant Holmes, please, let me explain,” John began, and Mycroft noted how he unconsciously stepped in front of Sherlock, the protectiveness evident in the movement. Mycroft fixed him with a look, and John fell silent, mouth closing with a snap as Sherlock shifted forward, stopping only when John's hand caught his sleeve.

“Mycroft, listen—”

Mycroft raised his hand, and Sherlock's mouth shut with a click. He looked nervously at John, who stared at Mycroft with tense eyes.

“Excuse us, Captain Watson,” Mycroft said, the edge to his voice the only sign of the palpable fury he felt throughout his body. “You," he snapped at Sherlock, rounding on him. "Get over here.” Grabbing Sherlock’s arm, he dragged him away, John releasing his hold with apparent reluctance. Halting Sherlock with a rough hand, Mycroft glared at his brother. Sherlock stared back, resolute.

“Mycroft,” he tried again, only to be silenced as Mycroft shook his head, pointing a finger into Sherlock’s face.

“No, Sherlock," he said sternly, voice brokering no room for argument. "You are going to listen to me, and you are going to keep that mouth of yours shut until I am finished.” At Sherlock’s mutinous look, Mycroft tilted his head, eyes flashing. “Do you understand?” Sherlock glared, holding his ground before finally dropping his gaze. His shoulders slumped, and, when he replied, he sounded defeated.

“Yes, Mycroft,” he whispered, and Mycroft felt a flash of guilt at the resigned acceptance in the younger man’s voice.

_Why does it always have to be you making trouble, Sherlock? _he wondered desperately, hating that he had to be the one to do this. To deliver the warning and tear Sherlock away from found happiness. Mycroft hesitated, gathering his thoughts before he spoke.

“Look, Sherlock. This isn't..." he sighed, and Sherlock raised his head at the unexpected gentleness in Mycroft's voice. “You need to be more careful,” he finally said, surprising them both. Sherlock’s eyes widened, and he stared.

“What?” he said, sounding incredulous. Mycroft held up a hand again, and Sherlock subsided, his eyes wide and wary.

“If you insist on this intimate involvement with the captain of your patrol, take better care that remains a secret.” Mycroft rolled his eyes, exasperation filtering into his words. “I shouldn’t be able to walk out and see you two _kissing."_

Sherlock’s mouth opened and gaped before it closed in shock. Gaining his wits, he spat out, “_Excuse _me?”

Irritated, Mycroft glared at him. “Really, Sherlock! The two of you, making out in plain sight... are you hormone-riddled teenagers?” Sherlock’s eyes widened again, his mouth twisting with anger.

“Shove off, Mycroft," he hissed, blood rushing into his face. "As if you’d know anything about what I feel for John, you _robot."_ He leaned forward with aggression evident throughout his body. “Like the ‘Ice Man’ would know anything about... about love.” The last word slipped from Sherlock’s mouth and dropped between them after a brief falter, bringing silence in its wake. Sherlock looked startled, then flustered, his eyes wide and confused.

Mycroft let the admission fade before sighing, “You may think of me as the ‘Ice Man,’ Sherlock, and that I know nothing of romantic feelings, but you'd be wrong.” Pulling off a glove, he held up his left hand. Moonlight shone off the gold band circling his ring finger. “Gregory and I have been married for six years.”

Shaking off his earlier surprise, Sherlock stared at him. “What—how... you and _Lestrade?”_ His arms rose, hands fidgeting with his hair in shock. “But I—I never…" Sherlock's hands dropped back to his sides, and he fixed Mycroft with a rueful glare. "I had no idea.”

Mycroft pulled the glove back over his bare hand. “Exactly.” He gripped Sherlock by the shoulder, giving him a rough shake. “And that’s because we don’t make out in the middle of reconnaissance, you great idiot.”

Sherlock snarled at the insult and shrugged Mycroft’s hand away. “So you won’t... you aren’t going to punish us?” He hesitated, wetting his lips as his face coloured. “You won’t punish John?”

His expression softening, Mycroft sighed and answered quietly, “No, Sherlock. I won't. And I won't say anything.” His eyes sharpened along with his voice. “However, no one else will be finding out as I did, because you two are going to stop being fools, right?” Sherlock’s eyes skated away, embarrassment evident on his face, and Mycroft reached out to shake him again. _“Right?” _he pressed, and Sherlock nodded, still looking away. His face was tense and tight. When he finally turned back to Mycroft, his pale eyes were distressed.

“It’s difficult, Mycroft,” he said, voice soft and vulnerable, a state Mycroft rarely viewed with his closed-off younger brother. “Hiding. It’s… I don’t like it.” There was a grieved edge to the words, Sherlock's expression bordering on dejected at the admission. Mycroft sighed again and gripped Sherlock’s shoulder with reassuring pressure.

“I know, little brother. I know it is.” Mycroft looked over to where John stood off to the side, watching with an uneasy expression. Mycroft studied him before turning back to his brother. “It was easier for Gregory and me. Our relationship began before we rose through the ranks. We made sure the marriage was legitimate before either of us were promoted.” His eyes softened as he took in the doubt on Sherlock’s face. “It won't be so easy for you and Watson. But, even if I don't condone this, and since you will not listen to reason, I will do what I can to ensure you stay safe.” His eyes flickered to John again, and he amended, _“Both_ of you."

The glance Sherlock cast his way was mixed, edged with begrudging gratitude. He nodded, lips pressed tightly together. Clearing his throat, Mycroft affected an indifferent expression. “Now, get some sleep. We will be off early tomorrow.”

Sherlock nodded again, a quick inclination of his head. He hesitated, staring at his brother before he finally turned away and walked toward John, glancing over his shoulder to cast an uncertain look at Mycroft. Letting out a long sigh, Mycroft watched his brother walk into Watson's arms, John's hands rising to curve along Sherlock’s back in a protective embrace. He stared at Mycroft over Sherlock’s shoulder before Sherlock bent his head, and John’s eyes moved to his face. They softened, and he murmured something, brushing a curl behind Sherlock's ear with a tender expression.

Watching them, Mycroft wondered if he had misjudged Watson. Perhaps he would be the making of his brother yet.

* * *

In the morning, Mycroft woke as the sun peeked over the distant horizon. He stretched and lit a smoke, packing his sleeping bag and gear before rising. He found Khatri perched in the Rover with one boot on the door, watching colour splash along the sky as his guard drew to an end. Hip balanced against the hood, Mycroft took in the other men, all in various waking stages. To his dismay, he saw that Moran was watching John with his rifle set across his lap and a dagger-sharp grin on his face.

Looking at that grin made Mycroft’s skin crawl, and he called the group to attention. As they gathered around, Mycroft didn't miss the way John’s eyes kept flickering to Sherlock, his face turning gentle. It was blatant, making Mycroft wish his brother had fallen for less of an idiot.

“We’re going into the hills today," he said, drawing their attention as he lifted an arm to denote the mountain range rising before them. “We'll take the Rover to the base of the mountains, conceal it the best we can, and load up on gear. Splitting into two groups will allow us to cover more ground." Mycroft squinted against the rising sun, already feeling its heat on his skin. "Our aim is to identify possible smuggling routes between here and Kandahar. We're not equipped to travel into the mountains themselves, so we'll focus on the lower hills.” Looking around, he met the eyes of each man in turn. “Stay together, stay safe, and stay alert. We want to keep this under the radar. We'll be hard-pressed if we announce our presence and draw an ambush. Understood?”

The five men nodded, Moran offering a sleek smile that made Mycroft narrow his eyes. “Good.” Studying a notebook in his hand, he nodded. “Okay, Moran, Sherlock, and Moriarty, you're together. Khatri and Watson, you’re with me.”

John’s head snapped up, his mouth opening with evident intent to argue. Mycroft shot him a stern look, jerking his chin to indicate Watson should approach. He did so, and Mycroft lowered his voice as they stepped away from the group, speaking quietly so the others would not hear, “Something you want to say, Captain?”

Eyes flashing, John spoke through his teeth, “You can’t send Sherlock with Moran," he ground out, eyes narrowing to slits. "There’s something wrong with him.” His voice dropped, forcing Mycroft to lean closer to catch his quiet words. “Sherlock won't be safe with Moran. I don’t trust him.”

“I won't risk compromising this patrol by sending you off with Sherlock," Mycroft replied sharply, his voice just as soft. "He would be a distraction to you, one none of us can afford.” He watched John’s face contort with anger, and Mycroft tilted his head in silent warning. John clenched his jaw tighter but subsided. Instead of pressing the argument, he looked over at Sherlock with a desperate expression.

"I don't like it," he whispered, eyes shifting past Sherlock. Mycroft followed his gaze to where Moran stood, watching Sherlock with a hungry expression. As if feeling their gazes, Moran looked over with a dead-eyed stare.

Tearing his eyes away, looking back to John, Mycroft forced his voice to emerge flat and hard. "You don't have to like it, Captain Watson. You just have to obey."

Shock rippled over his face before John stiffened and turned away, his fists clenching. “On your head, be it,” he hissed, stalking over to take Sherlock by the arm and pull him away from the group. Mycroft watched as John brushed sweaty curls from Sherlock's forehead. He narrowed his eyes, willing them not to be so stupid as to move toward more obviously affectionate territory, and was relieved when they reluctantly separated. John said something that Sherlock responded to with a nod, and John shared one last, lingering look with him before he returned to Mycroft's side.

Khatri appeared next to them, his rifle swinging against his chest. “Shall we, sir?”

Mycroft nodded, and the six men loaded into the Rover, silence falling over the group as sand drifted in red clouds from the rear wheels. John rode next to him in the passenger seat, his posture rigid. Anger and frustration rolled off him in waves, and Mycroft tightened his hold on the steering wheel in silent response to his palpable animosity.

The mountains sharpened and rose as they neared the range, peaks plunging high into the clear sky above.

Pulling up where the ground began to rise in hills and crests, Mycroft carefully navigated the uneven terrain until he found a small ridge that almost concealed the Rover. The men jumped out, grabbing supplies and packs, the click of clips sliding into place echoing back from the rocky landscape. Khatri and John threw a camo tarp over the vehicle, helping it blend into the environment.

Prepared, they divided into their respective groups. John shared a final look with Sherlock, the silence between them immense, and Mycroft heard him mutter, “Stay safe.” Sherlock nodded jerkily, shooting Moran a look before turning back to John. His fingers grazed John's shoulder as they parted, hand falling back to his side while John walked stiffly away from him.

With Watson and Khatri next to him, Mycroft watched the rest of the troop trek into the hills. Before they disappeared around a bend, Moran turned and flashed a grin over his shoulder, tossing a wink that was clearly meant for John.

John blanched in response. He took a step forward before he seemed to catch himself and rounded on Mycroft instead, hands twitching, his fingers curling into his palms.

“I told you,” he hissed, face angled up toward Mycroft, his eyes dark with anger. “I swear to God if Sherlock doesn’t come back—”

“Get yourself under control, Captain,” Mycroft commanded, speaking through his own quiet fury. Khatri frowned at them both, raising an eyebrow as he looked after the departed group. His eyes widened, understanding slipping over his face, and he looked at John with an appraising expression. John shot him a look, glared at Mycroft, and backed down with evident reluctance. Hands locked around his rifle, he shrugged his pack higher onto his shoulders and turned away, leading the way with a hard, marching pace. Mycroft and Khatri followed, dust kicking up beneath heavy boots. Uncertainty lingered in Mycroft's mind, and he couldn't help glancing over his shoulder.

But Sherlock was already gone, out of sight, and Mycroft could only hope he hadn't made a grave error in sending him with Moran.

* * *

They walked for several hours with the sun beating down, the silence of the terrain broken only by the occasional croak of a vulture or a large raven. Sparse, brown-green vegetation dotted the rugged landscape, and the three men watched their feet, wary of loose stones that might send them down the cliff face without warning.

John filled the silence with the miasma of his angry anxiety, the force of it draining Mycroft's energy faster than the heat and the relentless sun overhead. He was considering careful words when John suddenly stumbled, grabbing at a bush to right himself. Regaining his footing, he flinched to the side when a bullet whizzed past, cracking into the rock behind him.

“We’ve got company!” he shouted, falling to his stomach behind a boulder, rifle lifting as he fired toward the shooter. Khatri dropped against a rocky wall, squatting to present a smaller target as Mycroft pressed into the rock beside him, pulling out his binoculars to scan the area above. Adrenaline replaced his frustration and unease, clearing his mind of everything but their current situation.

“To the left," he said, pointing toward the flash of a firing gun. "7 o’clock!”

Lifting into a squat, John dropped the rifle against his arm, aimed, and fired again. Through his binoculars, Mycroft watched as a shape tilted and rolled down the incline, stopping when its armour snagged on a stunted tree. He glanced at John to find him perfectly still with his lips parted around even, deep breathing.

"Go, Khatri," Mycroft ordered, pointing forward with two fingers.

Khatri lunged forward as John provided cover fire from his position. Hooking a hand around a thick root, Khatri jumped up the rock wall, finding tenuous holds for fingers and feet as he scaled upward. A bullet ricochetted off the rock by his head, and he winced but kept climbing. Mouth tugging down in a grim moue, Mycroft joined John in providing cover. Over the rattle of gunfire, they watched Khatri pull himself onto a ledge, tackling the shooter around his ankles. A report rang out, fire flashing from the muzzle pointed at the sky as they both went down.

Slamming a fist into the shooter’s stomach, Khatri kicked out and sent the man over the side of the ridge. He disappeared from view, and Khatri skidded down the rock wall back toward them, panting with sweat shining on his dark skin.

John and Mycroft lowered their rifles, waiting until Khatri was back with them. The silence stretched out, and they rose, following an obscure path up to the ridge. Aside from blood spatters, there was little evidence of much else. Scuffing at the ground with his boot, Mycroft squatted, drifting a hand over the faint tracks of wheels in the dirt.

“Smuggling route?” John asked, hunkering down beside him. Khatri looked into the distance, squinting against the sun beating down on his face.

“Probably,” Mycroft replied, noting the location in a notebook. “We’ll notify air surveillance. Let them know the pass might be active.” Standing, he looked around, reading little else in the ground. Turning to the two men, he nodded back the way they’d come. “Let’s head back. The others should return soon. Maybe they will have found more."

* * *

The trek back was faster, the route more familiar. As with before, John's tension hummed in the hot air, returning now that the risk of death had passed. They paused to check the body John shot down when they came upon it, searching for identification.

“Taliban,” Khatri confirmed, nudging a gun away from the dead man. Mycroft sighed. His face was grim.

“This war is exhausting," he admitted, shading his eyes from the sun. He was tired, bone-deep weary, and ached for Gregory at his side. Glancing at John, Mycroft saw his tension was only increasing.

They continued to descend from the hills, reaching the Rover as the sun began to drop from its zenith point. The area was nearly silent, a pair of vultures wheeling on the thermals overhead. The three men settled in to wait for the others, drinking water and tearing into ration packs as the heat darkened their skin and pushed sweat down tired faces.

Hours passed with no sign of the other group. John began to fidget, stirring with nervous energy. His eyes kept shifting to Mycroft, darkening with anger the longer it took for the others to return.

When he finally got to his feet, hands fisted at his sides, Mycroft rose as well, anticipating the movement as he readied himself for a fight. John advanced, his lip curling back in a snarl. "I told you," he began, but Mycroft raised a hand, movement catching his eye. John paused and glared before whirling around as Moriarty and Moran climbed into view. Mycroft waited with his breath held captive behind his teeth, John all but vibrating next to him.

The air hissed out through Mycroft's teeth as he realized Sherlock wasn't with them, and Moran was grinning.

“Captain Watson,” Mycroft began, but the words died as John lunged at him, and he stumbled back. John's wild eyes burned bright with infuriated alarm, and he curled his fingers into the front of Mycroft's jacket, wrenching him forward.

“I told you,” he snarled, nearly spitting with the ferocity of his words. “I _told you!” _Jerking away from the steadying hand Mycroft pressed to his shoulder, John released his hold and advanced on the two men as they approached.

Moran stopped, letting John come to him while Moriarty shifted away, his eyes wide as John’s rage fell upon them.

“Where is he?” John grabbed the strap of Moran's rifle, looping his fingers and using his grip to try and pull the other man off balance. “Where is Sherlock?” Moran planted his feet, holding his ground. He didn't speak, just smirked, his face smeared with blood that didn't look to be his own.

A vicious, feral noise emerged from John’s mouth at Moran's silence, and he surged forward, driving Moran to the ground. John straddled his chest, beating his fists against Moran’s face. Overcoming his initial shock, Mycroft rushed forward with Khatri at his side. They grabbed at John’s shoulders, grappling and trying to pry him away. John refused to budge, ducking lower as he dug one hand into Moran's hair and split his lip with bloodied knuckles.

Moran grinned through the assault, his teeth and lips dark with gore. He didn’t bother to fight back, letting John’s fists fall against his skull until John was finally ripped away, swinging and snarling as Mycroft and Khatri hauled him off. They pushed John back against the Rover, restraining him his hands on his shoulders and chest. Over his shoulder, Mycroft watched Moran roll to a crouch, spitting blood and a loose tooth into the sand. He raised his head, his red-smeared grin still in place.

“Now we’re even,” he said, spitting again. John froze, shock ripping through him, his body going stiff and still. Mycroft felt him begin to tremble, where he held him by the wrist and shoulder. He shared a look with Khatri, Moran’s words having little meaning even as John writhed and cursed, pushing against the hands holding him in place.

“You bastard,” John shouted, lunging and fighting, almost escaping as Khatri stumbled back from the force of his struggling. “I’ll kill you, I will _fucking kill you.”_ John bit through his own lip, seeming not to notice the rush of blood over his lips, and Khatri leaned away, his eyes wide as he stared at Mycroft.

Moran laughed. The sound was a gurgle, sending goosebumps along Mycroft’s arms, the following words plunging his body into ice, “Go ahead, but it won’t bring him back.”

John went stiff again before he abruptly sank. After a moment of consideration, Mycroft and Khatri released him, and John went down on his knees, grasping at sand and rocks. He looked defeated, head hanging, shoulders slumped. They shared another look over his head before Khatri dropped down, touching John's arm and speaking to him in a low voice. "John? Hey, John, can you hear me?"

John stared at the ground, dead-eyed, and didn't answer. Disquieted by his sudden silence, Mycroft spun on his heel and stalked toward Moran. He stopped next to the man, still sprawled on his back, stared down at him, lips peeling back with distaste at Moran’s bloodied face. “What did you do, Sebastian?”

Moran stared up at him with his head tilted to the side, one eye bright red. He shrugged and sat up, lifting his hands in a helpless gesture. “The necessary, sir. Just what needed to be done to teach Watson a lesson.” His tongue flicked out, smearing blood over his chin from his split lip. Moran laughed, mouth dropping into a pout. “Poor Sherlock. It wasn’t his fault, but he had to go and fall for an idiot like Watson, and Watson had to pay. So, Sherlock paid instead." He tilted his head, peering around Mycroft to where John was kneeling in the dirt. “No one is untouchable.”

There was a blur of movement. John was on his feet and pushing past Mycroft. He growled, balanced his weight on one foot, and kicked Moran hard in the chest. Moran fell back with a solid thump, the breath ripped from his lungs at the impact in a loud gasp. He giggled breathlessly as John stood over him, panting.

"You're a monster," he managed, hands curled into claws at his sides. Moran grinned up at him.

"Such sweet talk, Watson. Didn't know you still cared."

John's expression twisted, eyes darkening, and Mycroft stepped forward before he could make another go at the man on the ground.

“Restrain them,” he ordered, turning to Khatri and pointing to Moran and Moriarty. Khatri nodded and pulled a zip tie from his pack. Shoving Moran onto his stomach, he pulled the plastic link tight around his wrists, yanking until it cut into the skin. Moran grunted, but the smile didn’t leave his face. His eyes shifted, pinned to John as Khatri hauled him to his feet.

Throughout all the excitement, Moriarty stood off to the side, silent and watchful. He blanched when John stalked toward him but held his ground. John caught his arms and wrenched them behind him, binding his wrists just as Khatri had with Moran. Mycroft watched as John leaned forward and hissed, “You picked the wrong side,” his hands rough as he pulled Moriarty toward the Rover. “Moran won’t be able to protect you once we get back to camp, and you’re declared a traitor.”

Moriarty paled even more but stayed silent, stumbling forward as John dragged him over the sand. Khatri shoved Moran into the back first, using another plastic strap to secure him to the roll cage. They tethered Moriarty on the other side, his eyes locked on John’s face with blatant defiance. He spat onto John’s boots, and Moran let out a loud laugh, the sound wet in his throat.

“Fucking lunatic,” Khatri snapped, shoving Moran back as he rocked forward, laughing until blood dribbled from his lips.

Mycroft hung back, watching John stalk toward him. "If we don't find him," he began in a harsh voice, interrupted by Mycroft speaking over him.

"I know, Watson." Lips pursed, Mycroft glanced up at the mountain peaks overhead. "I understand."

"Good," John spat, turning on his heel and striding back to the Rover. He perched on the tailgate with a thunderous expression, gaze fixed on the pass.

Tearing his eyes away, Mycroft dug his radio out of his pack and thumbed the button on the side. As he recited their location and the need for air surveillance, he tried not to think about what he would do if Sherlock wasn't found. Watson's threats aside, it was Mycroft who had brought Sherlock to the desert, he who had sent him with the wolves to possible death. It didn't matter that Moran had been the one to cause actual harm because Mycroft had placed his own brother in Moran's hands.

If Sherlock wasn't found alive, Mycroft would have no one to blame but himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did say there would be a betrayal.


	20. blood on the land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song _Happy Pill_ by Grandson
> 
> _I'll do anything,  
just tell me what you need  
take the lead, set me free  
blood on the land  
from the man that I had to kill_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes descriptions of mild(ish) gore, suffering, physical assault, and broken bones. Also, dialogue alluding to an abusive sexual interaction (between John and Moran. Nothing super explicit, but there's mention of it). Also very brief mention of past drug use. Like one sentence.
> 
> This chapter took me ages to write, I am very slow today.

Unease was Sherlock's constant companion as he followed Moriarty and Moran into the mountain range. He stepped over scrub brush and loose stones, his pack heavy and hot against his sweat-slick back. Pushing damp curls off his forehead, he watched the men in front of him carefully. They walked close together, heads bent in conversation. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as Moriarty's hand hovered at Moran's arm, comfortable and longing to touch. He felt a growing disquiet sink into the pit of his stomach, and anxiety gnawed at his thoughts. Drifting a nervous hand over the stock of his rifle, Sherlock warily eyed Moran's back.

John's softly whispered, _stay safe _rang in his ears, and he gripped the gun closer, frowning when Moriarty laughed, glancing back over his shoulder. Sherlock glared until he looked away.

The sun beat down, wringing moisture from his body, and Sherlock knew it was going to be a long day.

* * *

The morning passed hot and dry, and Sherlock resisted the urge to gulp down the contents of his canteens. He sipped water sparingly, ripping into a rations bar when his rumbling stomach became too much to ignore. The landscape was rocky and shade-sparse, sand and jagged rubble dotting their path along the mountains' base. There was nothing of note for four hours, and Sherlock was beginning to flag, exhaustion seeping in from a poor sleep the night before.

"When should we turn back?" Moriarty asked, directing the question to Moran. His automatic deference to Moran as leader made Sherlock's skin crawl. Moran may be the most senior soldier present, but Sherlock hated to think of him as commander. The way Moriarty spoke with awe and devotion on his face deepened his unease.

The disquiet in Sherlock's stomach moved to his chest, a fiery burn beneath his rib-cage. He rolled his shoulders and cradled his rifle closer, wetting his dry lips as he wished for more water.

"Oh, soon," Moran drawled, raising his arms and folding them behind his head, hands resting on the back of his skull. "Soon enough." His eyes flashed as his head turned, looking back at Sherlock with a wolfish smile. "Just a little farther."

Sherlock ducked his head and followed, still gripping his rifle with both hands. Again, he heard John's words, beating through him with every pulse of his racing heart.

_Stay safe._

Stomach clenching, Sherlock clenched his jaw, remembering John's vivid alarm when Mycroft paired Sherlock with Moran and Moriarty. While he understood his brother's reasoning, Sherlock couldn't help but wonder if Mycroft had made a mistake. His brother sometimes seemed almost omniscient in his ability to foretell outcomes of scenarios. And yet, Sherlock wondered if Moran's behaviour was consistent enough to predict.

He paused as the thought sank in, building alarm in his mind as he watched a crow wheel and glide in the clear air overhead.

"So." Moran shattered his thoughts, and Sherlock whirled to find him and Moriarty standing before him, with the ledge at his back. Arms folded over his chest. Moran studied him in silence. Moriarty darted looks between him and Sherlock with an expectant expression, a gleam in his gaze that unsettled Sherlock. He swivelled to face them fully, his apprehension rising as Moran went on, "What are we going to do with you, hm?" He spoke in a soft, drawling voice, a slow smile creeping over his lips as Sherlock's breathing sped up.

Eyes narrowed, Sherlock took a step back. The edge of the path caught the heel of his boot, and he halted, listening to small rocks skittering down the ledge behind him. Confusion mixing with fear in his gut, he blinked and said, "Excuse me?" He observed the two men, readying himself for surprises. To his relief, they stayed where they were. Still, Sherlock's muscles coiled with anticipation as adrenaline began to flow through his veins.

"You," Moran said, raising a finger to point before crossing his arms once more. "We need to deal with _you."_

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at the drop behind him, hands tightening on his rifle as he turned back. "Why do you need to 'deal with me' at all?"

His smile still slow and small, Moran shook his head as if Sherlock were a wayward child, asking all the wrong questions. "Oh, you poor, ignorant pup." Head cocked to the side, Moran made a soft 'tsk' sound, his tongue clicking against his teeth. "Tell me something, Sherlock. Who bottoms? Is it you? Or is it the Captain?" His tongue darted out, traced his bottom lip, and pushed into the corner of his mouth as he looked Sherlock over from head to toe. It reminded him of when Moran told him about John and licked the side of his face. Feeling a rush of revulsion, Sherlock glanced away, hands clenching into fists. He caught Moran's grin from the corner of his eye.

"Ah, of course," Moran sighed, nodding as if Sherlock had answered after all. "Of course, it's you, the baby of the group. Mycroft's mess of a brother, the freak of the 4/73." Sherlock stiffened but refused to rise to the bait, his jaw clenched as he stared into the distance. Unperturbed by Sherlock's silence, Moran stepped forward slowly, asking, "Do you want to know what happened when Watson was in _my _bed?"

Moran's voice dripped with slow venom, and Sherlock swallowed hard, hands beginning to tremble. He closed his eyes as Moran went on, wishing he would leave him alone.

"He's a sensitive one, your Captain," Moran mused, pacing ever closer. "In more ways than one." Sherlock opened his eyes to glance at the drop behind him again, catching the way Moran grinned when Sherlock turned back to face him. Then, abruptly, the smile was gone, and Moran was staring at him with a hungry expression. "It was so easy to make him cry out. Make him beg for more." A considering look slipped across Moran's features, and he tapped a finger to his bottom lip. "Or was it begging for me to stop?" He shrugged, careless. "Ah, well, it's not like it matters. Watson never let me play with him again after that. Said I was—what was it, again?" Moran tapped the same finger against his chin, fixing Sherlock with a look similar to that of a ravenous wolf, turned mad with starvation. "Right, he said I was 'a monster.'" Another shrug. Moran moved closer, and Sherlock resisted the urge to step back into thin air. "Sure didn't seem to mind when I was giving it to him good, though. If I recall correctly, I think he was on his knees and crying out for more." Moran's face softened with false affection. "Watson looks good in red, doesn't he? Better in blood, I think."

Something snapped inside of Sherlock, and his control let go with a ripping sensation in his chest. Legs bent, he lunged at Moran, teeth bared. He had hardly made it a foot when he was wrenched to a stop. The sudden resistance threw Sherlock off balance, and he reeled back, eyes wide with surprise as he saw Moriarty had caught his arm.

Moriarty stared back at him, a slight smile curving his lips. He tugged and pressed into Sherlock's body, making Sherlock stumble forward. Moran's attack caught Sherlock off guard off-kilter and fighting for purchase with his feet skidding on loose rocks. His fist swept into Sherlock's stomach, forcing the air from his lungs with a strained gasp. Pain rolled through him, and Sherlock fell to his knees, dazed.

"You look good on your knees, too, pretty boy," Moran growled, pacing around him, boots kicking up dirt. "I'd love to have some fun with you, but we're on a schedule, I'm afraid." Stopping, he balanced a foot on Sherlock's shoulder as Sherlock heaved for air and pushed. A groan escaping between his desperate panting, Sherlock tipped onto his side. Small rocks scraped the sensitive skin of his cheek, and he struggled to rise before Moran's boot came down on his leg with a sickening crack, ripping a high, keening cry from Sherlock's throat. Moriarty stood over him silently as Sherlock stared up at him, curling into himself. The agony flooded through him, reducing his shriek to whimpers. His leg burned like it had been set alight, pure, screaming hurt obliterating all other sensations.

"Why?" Sherlock wheezed, cringing when Moran stepped closer. He turned his desperate gaze to Moriarty, who looked away, meeting Moran's eyes over Sherlock's prone form. Moran nodded, and Moriarty wet his lips as his gaze dropped to Sherlock.

"Because you've always been the outsider, Sherlock," Moriarty said, his voice flat. Sherlock's heart sank at the sound of it, knowing he had no ally here. It didn't matter that he and Jim served together, that they had been deployed together. Moriarty had clearly made his choice of sides, and it wasn't Sherlock's. A sense of deep fear awoke within him, warring with the rolling waves of pain for his focus. Moriarty went on, and Sherlock struggled to pay attention. "And so have I, really." His eyes locked with Moran's again, Sebastian grinning like a shark over Sherlock's aching body. "I thought you were like me," Moriarty said softly, speaking more to himself than either Sherlock or Moriarty. He shook his head, looking back to Sherlock's anguished face. "But I see it now. I see that you're nothing like me." Lips twisting, Jim delivered the final blow, "You're _ordinary. _You could never be like me because you're nothing. You're _weak_, Sherlock. You're on the side of the angels, and you will always be weak because of it."

The crunch of rock underfoot announced Moran's movement before he appeared next to Moriarty. Looking down at Sherlock, he smiled and looped an arm around Moriarty to draw him closer. Moriarty went, his eyes shifting away from Sherlock, dismissing him as if he were already dead.

"I'll make sure to let Watson know what happened," Moran said to Sherlock, his words falsely comforting. "I'll tell him you died like a dog in the dirt, in his place." He drew his leg back. Before Sherlock could move away, Moran's boot connected with his temple, and everything went black.

* * *

Red and gold flashed through his head, eyes blinded by flashing rounds of concussive pain. Thinking he had been shot in the skull, Sherlock blinked, clearing his vision slowly to find sand in his mouth, tongue gritty and thick with blood. He spat, groaning when the abrasive material scratched along the dry, cracked skin of his lips. His hands rose with difficulty, fingers feeling over his jaw, his cheek and temples, over his forehead and through curls matted with what felt like dried blood. His skull seemed to be intact, despite the agony ripping through his head.

Eyes finally focusing, Sherlock saw the inky black of the desert stretching out in the distance. He lay inches away from the ledge, so close to the edge of nothing, hurting too deeply to move away. His mouth was bone-dry, skin throbbing with sunburn, anguish ripping through his head and body. When he managed to shift, he realized his pack was still lashed tightly to his back, rifle against his chest, the stock digging into his stomach. There was a sickening throb of pain in his left leg that diminished every other discomfort, save for his spinning head. Mind feeling shadowy and blurred by dehydration, concussion, and sunstroke, Sherlock recalled Moran's booted foot coming down on the leg, and the harsh snap of breaking bone.

Wriggling up onto his elbows, Sherlock pushed the rifle aside and rolled onto his side with a low groan, the sunburned skin of his face grinding against night-cooled sand. His leg shifted beneath him, and he flinched, curling into himself as pain burned through his body. A quiet, pathetic whining sound filled the heavy desert air, resonating in Sherlock's head. It took a moment for him to realize it came from his own mouth, a wailing noise of suffering.

Once the sharp pain ebbed slightly, he lifted himself higher up onto his arms. They buckled immediately, sending him crashing down again, head striking against a jagged rock. Dazed, Sherlock lay still for a moment, vision swimming as blood trickling into his eyes. He finally managed to shove the stone away, curling into himself again with arms wrapped tight around his stomach. Something shifted in his chest, sending a jolt of sharp pain through his core, and he huffed out a loud breath.

One bruised rib, at least. Possibly even cracked.

Hands digging into the sand, Sherlock tried once more, carefully pushing his uninjured leg beneath his wounded body. Canted in an awkward half-crouch, Sherlock lifted the other leg, a shriek tearing from his lips when the broken bones scraped together. The agony was immediate and intense, and he collapsed back into the sand, vision fading to black.

* * *

The sun burned against his face, dazzling when he cracked his eyes open. Sherlock turned his head away with a moan, finding his blistered lips stuck together with dried blood. Fumbling at his pack, he managed to wrench it off, twisting his arm and biting back a hoarse whine that failed to escape his sandpaper throat.

He dug out a half-empty canteen and sipped at it, eyes closing tightly at the cold liquid. If he had enough moisture left in his body, he would have cried. As it was, Sherlock puffed out two shaky breaths, rough, low sounds that were almost sobs, and dug through the pack for more water. His fingers brushed metal twice, feeling out the rounded ridges of the containers, and he made the same aborted sobbing noise again, this time in relief. Taking another mouthful of water, Sherlock forced himself to put the flask away, now only a quarter full. There was no telling how long he might be out here, and he needed to conserve water.

Zipping the pack closed, Sherlock shoved it ahead, dragging himself after with sunburnt hands, moving into the sparse shade. The sun was still low on the horizon, and he estimated the time as early to mid-morning. The shadows would disappear as the day drew on, but Sherlock would deal with that later. For now, he pressed his back against the rock wall, revelling in even a brief reprieve from the sun's relentless heat.

His stomach grumbled, and Sherlock dug back into the bag, finding a handful of rations. Most were bars, meant to meet only the most essential nutrition needs. Uncaring, he tore into one ravenously, struggling to swallow the dry, chalky mouthful. The powder-like consistency made his mouth ache for water, but he ignored the need, taking stock of his rations. There were a few small, dehydrated food packs, two of which required boiled water, and three which only needed liquid of any kind.

Sherlock's eyes flickered to the nearly empty water container, stomach growling. Despite his dread, he relented, tearing open the pouch and pouring the remaining water inside. He watched hungrily as the food rehydrated, tipping the edge of the silver bag to his bleeding lips to swallow down thick, gruel-like beans and rice with difficulty. Swallowing was a struggle, his throat tight with dehydration, but Sherlock forced it down.

The food sat in his stomach like a rock, heavy and nauseating, and he curled into himself with a groan. Sherlock breathed heavily through his nose, willing the queasiness away. Instead of receding, it only intensified, and he finally jackknifed up with a loud gag. He slumped onto his side and vomited into the sand, an anguished cry of frustration punctuating the sounds of pitiful retching that followed. Spittle dripping from his mouth, he cried in tearless gasps, dehydrated body shaking with shock and fury.

Spent, Sherlock collapsed into the sand beside the puddle of his own sick, a mix of undigested food and stomach acid, and what precious little water he had swallowed down. He needed to drink more, but his head swam with waves of dizzying despondency. Sherlock lay still and solemn in the sand, slipping into a deep stupor, his eyes half-closed and dulled by defeat.

* * *

He gradually roused from the dazed trance, body sluggish with lethargic torpor. The sun was directly overhead, pinning him in place with its blistering heat. Cursing and trembling, Sherlock dug a silver emergency blanket out of his pack. He pulled it over himself, huddling under the makeshift shelter, and struggled with the lid of a full canteen. His hands shook, body too weak to maintain a steady grip. He shoved the neck into his mouth, using his teeth to open the lid, whining at the pain the action sent through his jaw. He tried to conserve the water by taking small sips. Still, his body, baked dry by sun and heat, disobeyed, and he greedily gulped half the bottle down before he could stop himself. 

Finally pulling his lips from the container, Sherlock screwed it shut after several weak attempts, making angry noises at his own feebleness. He shoved the canteen back into his bag and slumped beneath the metallic blanket, feeling warm and sick. Still, it was preferable to burning alive under the afternoon sun, and Sherlock curled up in a tight ball, broken leg sticking straight out from his coiled body. He needed to move, needed to try and reach something other than desert. Sherlock knew he wouldn't make it far in his current state with the sun at its zenith. Night would be the best time to try if he was to try at all. 

A temptation rose, the thought to give in and die. To let Moran win. It would be so easy to close his eyes and slip away, finding peace and rest before everything fell into oblivion. His eyes fluttered shut, and Sherlock huffed out a pained breath. Everything ached, every inch of him felt like white-hot agony, and it was so tempting.

John's face rose in his mind, and Sherlock whined. He promised John, promised he would always come back. Whether Sherlock would be successful this time, he didn't know. But he was a man of his word, and John deserved his effort. Sherlock couldn't lie down and give in, not without trying first. Which meant he had to stay alive long enough to try, suffering all the while.

The thought held no comfort, and he focused on the image of John's face. Pictured his sandy hair with the premature greys already lightening at his temples. He imagined John's hand on his body, his voice in his ear, the brush of his lips, and Sherlock ached for him.

Filled with self-pity, he burrowed into the earth and tried to think of ice and snow, licking at his lips with a dry, sandpaper tongue. His headache, present since he first woke and stabbing into his thoughts, climbed to a sick, repeating beat at the front of his head and behind his eyes. Sherlock sighed, pressed his face against the sand, and slipped into a fitful, confusing sleep.

* * *

John stood over him. He was outlined against the sun, casting a shadow over Sherlock's face, his features hidden in the dark. Sherlock lifted his head and cried out with relief, his exhaustion lifting from his body. Instead of sound, a black stream of dirty water escaped Sherlock's mouth. It reminded him of vomiting, but without the painful clenching spasms in his empty stomach, and he curled into himself.

When he tried again, pleading with John to help him, John just stared down at him, silent and unmoving. Sherlock reached for him, sobbing, his hands passing through John as he dissolved into smoke. Before Sherlock could retract his arms, the smoke took a new form. It shifted and wavered, solidified into a terrifying shape. As it grew tangible, Sherlock sobbed his dismay to see Moran, gripping Sherlock's hands in his. His face was close enough that Sherlock could make out the darker green flecks in his staring eyes.

"John," he gasped, throat dry and raw. Moran smiled.

"No such luck, little pup," he replied and lunged forward with bared teeth. His bite sank into Sherlock's throat, and Sherlock woke with a scream.

Thrashing, kicking and crying out, he pushed the emergency blanket away, wrenching his leg in the process and cursing at the ragged bite of pain. He sat up as Moran's face faded in his mind, panting, taking in the twilight hue of the darkening skyline. Pain radiated through Sherlock's body, and he fought to slow his breathing, waiting for his racing pulse to decrease. It refused, and vertigo swept over him, the edges of his vision dimming to black.

Sherlock swayed and struggled to stay awake, sipping water before biting into another rations bar. The dizziness gradually receded, and his head cleared. He ate slowly, taking the time to chew and swallow each bite, waiting after each swallow for the sustenance to settle in his stomach. It took ages, but the food and water stayed down, and he finally sagged with relief. 

The respite did not last long, as he began shifting onto his right leg, tearing into the pack for supplies. There was his sleeping bag, the rest of the rations, the small first aid kit, and various other accoutrements, including multiple clips for both his rifle and the handgun strapped to his chest. Almost all his gear was present, aside from anything that could contact base or the rest of the patrol. Sherlock had no doubt that Moriarty and Moran had taken his radio, leaving him without a chance.

Sitting in the sand, Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed the night air into his lungs. Everything they'd done to him, all of it, was payback to John. Retaliation for John challenging Moran.

Sherlock licked at his dry, cracked lips and tried to drag his focus back to the task at hand. He had to leave the mountains. If he was fortunate, the rest of the patrol might still be waiting. His stomach clenched as the thought crossed his mind that Moran and Moriarty may have attacked the others, perhaps even killed them. He brushed the fear aside, knowing there was nothing he could have done. Turning his attention to the present, Sherlock took stock of his status.

The broken leg was a significant problem. There was no point planning a trek to rescue if Sherlock couldn't do more than drag the useless limb behind him. He wouldn't make it anywhere if he was reduced to crawling across the desert. Focusing past the migraine fog in his head, Sherlock pulled out the first aid kit and flipped it open, cataloguing his supplies. The gear inside was pitifully basic, but there was a metal splint kit, and he grabbed it with a surge of gratitude. 

Creating the splint was slow work, and he wasted almost an hour hunting down sticks to stabilize the limb. He padded the makeshift setup with the spare shirt, trousers, and underclothes in his bag, using a tourniquet and tensor bandages to secure the splint around the break. The pain eased slightly as the pressure came off the limb, to his immense relief. It still hurt, but the roar of agony eased a few notches. Sherlock paused to sip another sparing mouthful of water before he began searching for a longer stick, something he could lean on for balance. 

It was full night when he found one, bright stars scattered across the heavens. Without the miasma of city lights, Sherlock could make out the hazy sweep of the Milky Way, painted across the night sky. Sherlock squinted upward, taking a moment to absorb the silent whirl of constellations overhead.

Turning away, he pulled his pack onto his back, a half-eaten bar gripped in his mouth. He tore off a piece, chewed, swallowed, and dragged himself toward a tall rock. Growling, Sherlock scrabbled and clawed at the surface, using it as leverage and fighting until he finally stood, leaning clumsily against the boulder. His vision swam, and he breathed loud and hard through the dizzy spell until it passed. He was shaky and weak but upright. 

Cracked lips parting, Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and took a step on his right leg. It held, and he allowed himself a small, triumphant smile. After a moment of dubious hesitation, he swung the splinted leg forward, balancing his weight on the thick branch as he brought the foot down.

The pain was sharp and nearly unbearable, strong enough to numb his hip. Sherlock clenched his teeth together to trap the scream rising in his throat and continued to move forward. His pace was slow and agonizing, but he kept on, fighting his way down the hills, to the place the Rover had first parked what felt like years ago. He stopped several times to rest, sweat dripping down his face, over his back beneath his gear. The pack slowed him, and Sherlock struggled for every bit of ground he gained, but he did gain.

It was hours before he reached the start point, unable to remember how many days it had been since they had first parked the Rover here and set off into the hills.

When he finally came to the spot, there was no sign of the Rover or his fellow soldiers. Even the tire tracks had begun to fade, the baked earth scrubbed by wind and heat.

Sherlock stumbled over a rock, nearly went to his knees, and caught himself on his walking stick. He hung in place, leaning heavily with the end dug into the sand to keep upright. The last of his strength wavered, threatening to snap as Sherlock breathed loud, heavy sobs of exhaustion and frustration into the air.

They left him. He made it all the way back only to find himself alone and left behind. Everyone must think him dead, with no effort made to find his body. Sherlock slumped and quivered, the silence of the desert weighing heavy on him.

A tense, frightening thought occurred, the thought that he might not have been abandoned after all. For all he knew, Moran and Moriarty might have attacked the others. Though he saw no blood or bodies, he couldn't shake the terrifying possibility.

The sun was beginning to rise at the horizon as he slid against the side of the mountain, his shoulder connecting with solid rock. If there had been enough liquid in his body, he would have cried, but nothing came but more choked, dry sobs, which faded to silence. 

"I'm coming, John," Sherlock whispered, dry lips beginning to bleed when he opened his mouth. He forced himself upright again, legs shaking before taking his weight. "Wait for me, I'm coming."

* * *

It took a day, a night, and half another day of slow, aborted stumbling—frequently stopping to sleep curled beneath the emergency blanket—to find something other than desert. Swaying on green stalks, red flowers bowed beneath the sun by a faint breeze, a field of poppies beckoned him forward. It looked like a mirage, and Sherlock fought his way onward. Mirage or not, if he was going to die, he'd prefer to die somewhere other than in the endless red sand he had struggled through for endless hours.

Leaning heavily on his walking stick, Sherlock limped his way toward the slash of green. Beyond the field, the wet glimmer of the Helmand River rippled beneath the sun, tempting and coaxing him on. He fixed his eyes on its blue expanse, single-minded in his tenacity. His splinted leg dragged behind him, aching with new pain.

Earlier, he fell onto his left side, shifting the bone until it poked through the skin. Sherlock had readjusted the splint, covering the wound as he screamed and retched with agony. He had lost precious time and water to the fall, and the leg was now a constant agony. Blood soaked into his sock, dripping down his leg and into his boot.

Reaching the edge of the poppy field, Sherlock blessed the existence of opium. Praised how it fueled this never-ending war and had once filled his veins with the sing-song melody of a mind-numbing high. People moved through the flowers, tending to the valuable crop, and his heart raced when he saw them. 

The greenery brushed his boots, and Sherlock fell to his knees, uttering a low cry as his broken leg struck the ground. Beaming through the wretched torment of the deformed limb, he tilted forward, landing face-first in yielding vegetation. After days of sand, the sensation of something soft and alive against his skin made Sherlock choke out a laugh that sounded hysterical.

When he regained his wits, he rolled slowly onto his right side, turning his head to see a pair of boots approaching. Sherlock shifted as they stopped beside him, looking up.

A tall man with dark skin and a thick, black beard stared down at him with a concerned face, his brow furrowed. The man said something, and Sherlock just blinked, his brain too exhausted to recognize the dialect. The man spoke again, repeating himself, but the edges of Sherlock's vision went dark, and he lost himself in the black.


	21. rather die than give you control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from _You Know What You Are?_ by Nine Inch Nails
> 
> _head like a hole  
black as your soul,  
I'd rather die  
than give you control.  
bow down before  
the one you serve_

Mycroft’s head ached. He grappled with the sick uncertainty that Sherlock could be suffering in the desert, left to die a slow death from exposure and dehydration. His heart raced with the possibility that he might already be dead, manmade roadkill feeding the carrion birds.

They waited for a day and a half for Sherlock. Scoured the hills for signs of him and failed to find anything. Wherever he was, they couldn't reach him. Finally, they had been forced to return to base, leaving air support to continue the search. But they were in a war, and manpower could only be spared for so long.

John had raged and fought, tried to go back out on his own. Only the threat of being shipped back to London had finally subdued him. He hadn't spoken since, choosing to withdraw and pace while they dealt with Moran and Moriarty.

Lost in his thoughts, Mycroft shook his head and turned his attention back to the matter at hand. He stared at the man seated in a chair set in the middle of the concrete room. His hands were pulled back until his shoulders rounded under the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Green eyes flashed as Moran stared back at Mycroft, dried blood and bruises marring his tanned face, his lips pulled back in an open-mouthed grin that showed off his missing tooth. Gaze glinting in the half-dark of the room, he sat leaning forward, tilting at the limit of his tethers.

Stationed behind him, two stony-faced soldiers stood in full gear and berets, high-powered rifles held across their chests, cocked and ready. 

Tearing his eyes away from Moran’s dead-eyed gaze, Mycroft looked to the man at his side. Gregory turned toward him, skin still sallow under his own fading tan. There were dark shadows etched beneath his tired brown eyes, and he leaned heavily against a chair back, gripped with white knuckles. It was good to see him up, but the event paled under the feral stare of a deranged soldier with blood on his hands, and Sherlock's continued status as M.I.A.

Footsteps drew Mycroft’s attention to the man prowling off to the side of the room. Hands curled into fists, John traced the invisible path of his own strides on the concrete floor. Eyes pinned to his feet, his head infrequently snapped up to glower at Moran, face twisted with anticipation for violence that took Mycroft’s breath away.

He tried to avoid looking at him, unsettled by the hazy hints of madness flickering over John's expression. It had been almost three days since leaving the mountains with no sign of Sherlock, and Mycroft was certain John had not slept for a second. He looked wild, his face pale and drawn, eyes dark shadows in their sockets.

If Mycroft still had doubts about John's dedication to Sherlock, he felt them dissipate in the face of John's growing desperation.

John continued his pacing as if unaware of Mycroft's attention, hands opening and closing as his fingers flexed, face haunted. Anytime someone tried to approach, as Mycroft had attempted a day ago, John’s head lifted, eyes widening in a silent challenge. He would stop, standing rigid and still, as if daring anyone to try and remove him. 

Gradually, everyone left him alone, watching his relentless pacing with uneasy eyes. 

Gregory made a soft, pained sound at his side, and Mycroft's attention snapped back to the present. He gestured to the chair, waiting until Lestrade sank into it with a sigh before looking back to the restrained man.

“Moran, we can play this game as long as you like,” Mycroft began, his words smooth and precise, stepping around Greg's chair to approach the soldier. “But you and I both know every man has his limit. We will find yours eventually. It is only a matter of time.”

Moran’s head hung low, held even with his forward-tilted shoulders, and he peered up at Mycroft from below raised brows. He reminded Mycroft of a snake, coiled and waiting to strike.

“So says you, big brother,” Moran said pleasantly, baring his teeth in a fierce expression. “So says you.” He choked and spat a mouthful of clotted blood onto the floor, making Mycroft turn away in disgust. He returned to Gregory's side, folding his arms over his chest as he stared at the grinning man.

“What if he doesn’t break?” Greg muttered, rubbing at his side with a grimace for his injured ribs. 

“He will,” Mycroft replied softly, eyes on Moran. “But it doesn’t matter. Moriarty will tell us what happened, whether Moran breaks or not.” His voice rose enough for Moran to hear the answer. Moran sneered, throwing his head back to shake sweat from his eyes.

“Go ahead,” Moran sneered in an icy tone. “Break him in half for all I care. Whatever he has to say won't bring Sherlock back.” 

Teeth grinding together, Mycroft resisted the urge to step forward and throw the man to the floor. Later. Violence would come later if Moran insisted on holding his tongue, and they exhausted the more civil means of extraction. For now, it was a waiting game of the worst kind. 

As Mycroft studied the man in front of him, looking for a weakness to exploit, he found only madness. Watching Moran drool blood and spit from the corner of his open mouth made his stomach turn. How Moran had hidden from them all for so long was shocking, and Mycroft felt a deep unease.

A sound broke into his disturbed reverie, drawing his eyes to the man pacing parallel to the wall like a caged animal as John broke from his ingrained pattern. He crossed the room, his stride jerky and unsteady, swaying with lack of rest and food as he stopped in front of Moran. They stared at one another, John close enough that Moran’s heavy breathing ruffled the front of his shirt.

“Watson, step back!” Mycroft snapped, alarmed when John hunched his shoulders and ignored him, still looking down at Moran.

“He’ll talk to me,” he said, and Moran’s teeth flashed in his damaged face as he smiled. 

“Good job, Watson,” he hissed, looking pleased. Swaying to the side, hanging from his restraints, Moran looked around John at Mycroft and Greg. “He’s right. I’ll talk to my old buddy John. Of course I will.”

Eyes narrowing, Mycroft stepped forward, hesitant to accept the sudden change of heart. “Why? Why would you talk to John?”

Moran grinned again, barking a loud, shrill laugh, but it was John who answered. His voice emerged sounding hoarse and cracked but level as he stared down at Moran’s cackling mouth.

“Because he wants me to know,” John said, his eyes unblinking as Moran smirked and nodded to his words. “Because he... he hurt Sherlock to hurt me, and he wants me to know what happened to him.”

Moran collapsed back into the chair, looking pleased. John took a step away, hands gripping his arms with firm pressure. “So tell me, then,” he snapped. The words were hard, empty, dropping to the floor like stones. 

The emotion vanished from Moran’s face, his features falling still as the deranged smile disappeared from his lips. Sitting up, he began to speak in a voice empty of inflection as his words filled the room.

“You needed to pay, Watson. Sherlock paid for you.” His lips curled before the smile faded again, and his eyes flashed. "He paid well."

“So you've said,” Mycroft replied, his face tight and tense. “But why? Why go through all this? Why commit treason, possibly murder, just to even a score?”

John twitched at the word ‘murder,’ his haunted eyes darkening further. Mycroft glanced at him warily, but John's attention remained fixed on Moran.

“Answer him,” he said after Moran’s silence stretched out. The corner of Sebastian’s mouth twitched, and he tilted his head toward John. His reply was simple.

“Because Watson here is a dog.” Another twitch from John, but he held his silence, looking hollowed-out. Eyes fixed on his face, Moran went on, “And dogs should know better than to challenge those above them.” Moran coughed, a hoarse hacking fit that shook his frame. He gurgled, spat blood, and continued, “When a dog bites someone, we put it down. It's just what we do. Can't have a dog that bites, can we?" Moran's smile was sweet, almost angelic. Mycroft shivered at the red tint to his teeth, the way his tongue flicked out and smeared blood over his lips. "Watson here, _John,” _Moran sneered the name, lips red and twisted, “never learned his lesson.” Fury shifted Moran’s face into that of a beast, and his arms strained against the restraints, veins standing out on his muscular forearms. "Do you get it now? Why I did it? _I had no choice."_

Mycroft passed a hand over his face, looking to Greg to gauge his reaction. Greg stared back with a pale face and horror in his eyes that Mycroft knew reflected his own. Because Moran sounded mad, sounded _insane,_ and they were both beginning to wonder how he had deceived them all for so many years. How long had the beast been among them, sowing destruction and suffering under the surface?

John started pacing again, cutting across the room with jerky steps. Fingers twitching at his side, he spoke to Moran with a tremor in his voice, his stride uninterrupted.

“Is he dead?” he asked, head twisting around to look at Moran as he paused in his circuit. Desperation bled into his voice, his eyes open wide and looking shattered. “Did you kill him? Is Sherlock dead?”

Moran shrugged, the gesture impeded by his arm restraints. “As good as, I suppose.” He shook his head, cropped hair plastered to his skull with sweat. “Couldn't tell if he was when we left him, doubt he still is alive now if he was. It would take a miracle for him to make it out of those mountains.”

John halted, palms pressed hard to the wall in front of him. Silence fell, Moran watching him expectantly. John didn't speak, a tremour working through his body. Tenson tightening this shoulders, Mycroft stepped forward. “What did you do to him, Moran?”

Another attempt at a shrug. “I told you. Sherlock paid the price.” A loose, wet chuckle slipped from his mouth as Moran continued to stare at John. “It’s all Watson’s fault,” Moran spat another mouthful of blood onto the ground at his feet. “If he had kept his hands to himself, his little fuck toy would still be here, safe and sound.”

Mycroft twitched at the crude language, Greg grimacing at his side. Taken aback, neither reacted when John spun on his heel and lunged forward. He grasped at Moran with clawed hands, catching him in the chest and tipping him back into the dirt as he collided with the chair. Falling on top of the restrained man, John grabbed him hard by the jaw and throat, squeezing until his knuckles went white. His expression twisted, eyes staring and fixed, crazed in his waxen face. He tightened his grip, and Moran choked, grinning despite having the air crushed from his throat.

Finding his senses, Mycroft rushed forward, shouting, “John! Stop!” He seized John’s arms, trying to pull him off. Greg hung back, still too weak to help, waving forward the soldiers behind Moran. They hurried to help, and the three of them finally managed to drag John away. His nails left red marks on Moran's skin, the outline of his fingers already rising as bruises.

Hanging limply from Mycroft’s arms, panting and snarling, John stared at Moran’s bloody face. “Get me out of here, or I _will_ kill him,” he whispered, jerking his head away to look at Mycroft. Nodding, Mycroft released his hold as one of the soldiers stepped forward, taking John’s arm and leading him out of the room.

Moran watched John leave, his grinning red lips like a red slash across his bruised face.


	22. all the jagged edges disappear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from _All the Love in the World_ by Nine Inch Nails
> 
> _all the jagged edges disappear  
colours all are brighter when you're near  
the stars are all afire in the sky_

John let the soldier lead him from the room where Moran bled and choked out his sick laughter. The hand on his arm was a steady tether to reality as his mind raced, drowning in a synaptic cocktail of rage and dread. Hot air hit him in the face when they stepped outside, and John pulled the weight of it into his aching lungs.

He brushed the soldier off, nodded to him, and set off, legs carrying him away from the compound until he reached the blast barrier. Needing air, needing space and sanity, John stared out at the horizon as a deep-seated sense of helplessness rose within him.

His knees went loose, dumping him to the ground, and he grabbed handfuls of sand with frantic fingers. As the fine red grains slipped through the spaces between his knuckles, spilling back to the earth, John imagined taking Moran’s head in his hands and crushing his skull. The image brought a vague sense of satisfaction, but it was nothing compared to the gaping emptiness eating away at him. He had tried to remain calm, struggling to maintain composure. But it had been for naught, torn apart by Moran’s smirking face and cruel statements. Even as Mycroft had stressed the importance of answers over revenge, Moran’s smirking face had wiped that away, driving John to violence.

Not knowing where Sherlock was, if he was even still alive, pushed slivers of terror under his skin. Once he found his legs again, John prowled the edges of the camp, unable to sit still lest the tension tear him apart.

He wanted Sherlock. Needed him. Without him, John was sure he would waste away. And, without Sherlock in his life, such a fate seemed like the only possible outcome. He hadn't eaten or slept in days, and still felt he didn't need either, sustained solely by his anger and anguish.

The sound of static filled his ears, and John bit down on his tongue until he tasted blood in his mouth. A rush of pain grounded him, letting the sounds of reality filter through. With it came the uproar of a commotion near the entrance, and John drifted toward the noise, drawn along by vague curiousity.

A small truck pulled up to the gates, soldiers stepping forward to meet it with guns cocked, dogs snarling at their sides. As John reached the entrance, he paused and watched a man emerge from the driver’s seat, his arms in the air. His skin was dark beneath a deep tan, a thick beard covering the lower half of his face. His hands shook as he spread them above his head, showing he was unarmed. When he spoke, it was in a thick accent, voice shaking with nerves.

“I have soldier,” he called, stopping when one of the guards barked an order to halt. “Soldier!” He gestured at the vehicle behind him with an insistent expression. “Back of truck, hurt bad.” He paused, brows dropping as he seemed to try and remember something. His face cleared, smoothing out, and he shouted, “Hol-mes!” The man pronounced it in two syllables, but the name was unmistakable. “Soldier Hol-mes!”

John froze, the words echoing through his fuzzy head in a relentless mantra. _Holmes? _Was it possible...?

Forcing his numb limbs to work, John pushed forward then broke into a run, pulling up as one of the dogs swung around, tensing until its handler called it to heel. The driver turned to watch John approach, looking apprehensive at the sight of John’s shadowed eyes.

“Holmes?” John replied, waving the other soldiers aside. He paused, then spoke in broken Pashto, the words emerging slow and clumsy, “Dark hair, very tall?” The man’s eyes lit up, and he nodded, clearly relieved to find an ally.

“Yes, yes!” he said and continued in rapid Pashto until John lifted his hands, stopping him.

“Sorry, slow. I'm not good speaking,” John replied in his broken attempts at the same language, offering a rueful smile. Despite his careful words, his mind whirled, and his eyes kept darting to the back of the truck, trying to see inside. The man shook his head, a friendly smile on his face.

“Soldier, you need lesson,” he said, and waved at the truck, beckoning this time. Another man stepped out of the passenger side, his arms raised uncertainly above his head. The first man spoke to him in English, waving impatiently, “Brother, show soldier Hol-mes.”

The brother motioned John forward, nodding at John's uncertain expression. John hesitated, then gestured for two of the guards to follow. He walked toward the man, who indicated the truck bed. “Hol-mes,” he said, his deep voice filled with relief.

Still unwilling to let himself hope, John looked over the side of the truck. His throat constricted when he saw filthy curls and sun-blistered skin, and a strained, sobbing sound escaped his lips. Grey-blue eyes stared up at him, dimmed by fever and dehydration.

“Sherlock,” John breathed, his voice breaking. "Oh, god, Sherlock." The noises around them faded to a background hum, his world narrowing to the man laying half under an old tarp in the back of a beat-up truck, the sides dark with dirt and faded by the sun.

Sherlock lifted his head slowly, cracked lips parting as his tongue slipped out to trace them. Blood welled up and trickled from the contact, and John's heart thudded hard in his chest. He sucked in a breath as Sherlock blinked and managed a pained smile. “John,” he croaked, lifting a hand. “I said... I told you I’d always come back.”

Climbing over the edge of the truck, taking care not to jostle Sherlock, John took the offered hand in his, fingers shaking as he traced the curves of Sherlock’s knuckles. “Yes,” he replied, unable to help the grin stretching his face, or the moisture making his eyelashes clump. “Yes, you did. You did.” He watched Sherlock’s eyes light up, then roll back before his head dropped, and he passed out. John bent over him with a pained expression, smoothing his fingers gently through tangled curls. "Oh, my love," he breathed, feeling something damp trickle down his cheek. "What did he do to you? I'll kill him for this, I will." His words went unheeded, Sherlock's expression slackened. John stroked gently over his sunburnt skin, chest tight as he looked down into the face he had ached for these past few days.

Keeping a firm grip on Sherlock’s hand, John turned to the two soldiers at his side. “Get Sargent Holmes,” he barked, narrowing his eyes when the men hesitated, glancing at the brothers standing off to the side, watching. “That’s an order,” John added, forcing his voice to come out hard and commanding, despite fighting the urge to collapse with relief. The soldiers nodded and trotted off, casting one final look at the two locals. John turned to them next, letting the hard cast of his face shift into a smile of gratitude.

“Thank you,” he said fervently. Looking down at Sherlock's closed eyes and parted lips, he repeated himself in a hoarse whisper, “Thank you.”

* * *

Mycroft whipped the camp into a frenzy of activity. It was all John could do to follow along with numb obedience, his mind whirling. They welcomed the brothers into the base, their old truck rattling as it passed through the gates.

After John jumped back into the sand, he watched as Sherlock was lifted from his makeshift bed in the back. His eyes flashed open when someone jostled his left leg, eyelids fluttering, and incoherent noises emerged from his cracked lips. He was barely lucid, face flushed with illness and sunburn as he babbled nonsense. When the leg was bumped once more, a piercing, whining cry tore from his throat. John rushed forward, shouldering past the medics to stroke shaking hands over Sherlock's chest and arms, whispering words of comfort through his own distress.

Once lowered onto a stretcher, Sherlock subsided into a nearly comatose state, head rolling loosely on his neck. John lingered as he was strapped into place, heart twisting as Sherlock mumbled John’s name or cried out. When he was finally carried away, John tried to follow, only for Mycroft to stop him with a hand on his shoulder.

"I need you to come with me," he said, shaking his head to silence John's arguments. "There's nothing you can do that the medics can't. Come with me." John frowned, reluctant to leave. Turning, he stared after Sherlock, taking in how his leg was skewed at an angle that looked horrific and wrong.

The sight of that leg made John’s stomach turn. It was canted to the right from a prominent, severe break. The dirty triangle bandage tied over the thigh hardly concealed the jut of bone through the skin. When John had hazarded a careful inspection, the area around it had been hot to the touch, raised and swollen.

Biting back the bile rising in his throat, he followed Mycroft and the two brothers into an air-conditioned office. He hovered while Mycroft took their statements, trying to focus and listen, but finding his thoughts shifting away to Sherlock. Setting his back against the wall, John forced himself to stay present.

“So,” Mycroft began, smoothing out a yellow legal pad in front of him. “Tell me what happened. How did you find him?”

The first man, the one who had addressed John first, nodded and sat forward. “Sorry, ah, Sargent—?”

“Holmes,” Mycroft replied, catching the unspoken question. The man nodded, his brown eyes lighting up with recognition.

“Ah, Hol-mes also!” He looked pleased, pointing to the man at his side. “Brothers.”

Mycroft smiled, nodding as well. “Yes, Sherlock is my younger brother.” The man brought his hands together, his expression thoughtful.

“Sh-er-lock,” he repeated the name as if tasting it on his tongue. “Strange name.” Mycroft shrugged in agreement, and the man pointed to himself. “Lmar.” He pronounced it as Almar, then indicated his brother again. “Zaram.” The brother inclined his head but did not speak. Lmar grinned. “His English is not good.”

Making a note of their names on the yellow paper, Mycroft looked up again. “Your English is quite good, and you seem familiar with soldiery. Have you served?”

Lmar shook his head, waving a dismissive hand. “No, Zaram and I, we work in…” his lips pursed, and he shook his head again. Looking at his brother, he spoke in Pashto. Zaram shrugged, tilting his head to the side with his arms folded across his chest. Turning back to Mycroft, Lmar spread his hands. “Sorry, not sure what word.”

Leaning forward, Mycroft spoke in Pashto, his inflection and tone almost as smooth as that of the man he addressed. Lmar’s eyes lit up, and he replied in kind, looking gratified. As Mycroft wrote something down, Lmar turned to smile at John. “Soldier, you should learn from _this_ Hol-mes!” His voice was amused, and John couldn’t resist a small smile, even as worry for Sherlock burned in his chest.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied, looking to Mycroft for clarification. Mycroft shifted to meet his gaze.

“He said they found Sherlock in an opium field, where they work. That’s why they’re familiar with rank designations. All the soldiers constantly passing through.” A brief shadow passed over Mycroft’s face, casting a strange light to his eyes, fading too quick for John to be sure it had ever been there. “Lmar said Sherlock walked out of the desert and collapsed in the flowers.” He turned back to the brothers, speaking in Pashto again. Lmar replied, pausing when Zaram added something, the first brother nodding in agreement.

Writing the answers down, Mycroft spoke aloud in English to John, “He was dehydrated and badly hurt. They brought him inside and tried to help with the leg. There wasn't much they could do for him, so they kept him comfortable. The man who usually helps with medical matters, another brother, is visiting relatives in Kandahar.” Zaram spoke up again, his voice deeper and quieter than Lmar’s, and Mycroft scribbled another set of notes. “They gave him food and water, but he was sick several times, and they realized he needed to be brought to Bastion.” His eyes flickered up to the two brothers. Zaram was glaring at Lmar, who frowned at him. Mycroft tilted back, speaking quietly to John. “Zaram didn't think it was a good idea, but they came anyway.”

John looked to the two brothers, nodding to Zaram with a look he hoped conveyed the sheer depth of gratitude he felt for them bringing Sherlock home. Clearing his throat, he thanked them in their language, speaking haltingly but with emotion. Zaram blinked at him, considering, then inclined his slowly. Lmar grinned at John.

Looking at the brothers, Mycroft said something in Pashto. John vaguely understood it to be a thank you for trusting the British Army enough to bring back one of its own. The gesture would not go unrewarded.

Lmar appeared pleased, if a little shy, while Zaram looked away with a terse expression. The brothers and Mycroft stood, shaking hands and nodding to one another before the Sargent turned to John.

“You should get some sleep," he said quietly, eyes darting over John's shadowed face. "Sherlock will be in surgery for a few hours, at least. He'll need you when he wakes, and you are no use to him like this.” His gesture indicated John's weakened state, swaying on his feet now that the adrenaline from earlier had faded. John considered refusing but knew Mycroft was right. Instead, he tipped his head in agreement, turning to the brothers and thanking them once more. Lmar smiled while Zaram looked wary.

John strode to the entrance, feet already beginning to drag. He crossed the base in a daze, barely noticing those he passed, his head swimming with fatigue. By the time he made it back to his quarters, exhaustion had sunk wicked claws into his body. He collapsed to the mattress and into a dreamless sleep before his head hit the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, but only because I broke this one and the next into two chapters.


	23. meant for more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from _Youth_ by Glass Animals 
> 
> _boy, when I left you, you were young  
I was gone, but not my love  
you were clearly meant for more  
than a life lost in the war_
> 
> (yes, I have resorted to naming all chapters from song lyrics, lmao)

His eyes opened to cool, calm dark. Throat dry and leg aching, Sherlock’s sluggish mind tried to equate this sudden peaceful absence of light with the blinding sun that had plagued him for several days. It had burned into brain and skin and become his constant companion. Recalling the sway of green-stemmed flowers and desert sand, he squeezed his eyes shut as disorientation scattered his thoughts.

He tried to remember what happened after the poppy field and encountered a blank. Snippets rose, sounds and words in another language, unfamiliar faces and persistent pain.

And John. _John._

Opening his eyes again, Sherlock blinked until shapes clarified in the gloom. Beds and cold metal rails solidified in his vision, and he shivered, chapped lips parting as he struggled to sit up. The movement jostled his leg, secured upward in a sling and stabilized with a cast, and Sherlock let out a low, huffing whine at the pain.

Something shifted in the dark, and he bit back rising alarm when Mycroft stepped into view. Holding a finger against his lips, his brother gestured to the left of the bed. Turning carefully, Sherlock saw John asleep in a chair, his head tilted against the wall. His face was pale, and he appeared exhausted, the dark shadows beneath his eyes giving him a hollowed-out look. The sight of him sent a thrill through Sherlock's aching body, and he longed to reach out and touch him, but his arms were heavy and leaden. Looking back to Mycroft, Sherlock nodded to show he understood.

“You gave us quite a scare,” Mycroft murmured, moving to stand at the opposite side of the bed from where John slept. Sherlock studied his cast-clad leg before dropping his gaze to his hands. The skin was blistered and peeling, oily with cream in some areas, wrapped with loose, non-stick gauze in others. He raised his eyes to his brother, frowning.

“Moran,” he said, almost choking on the word when his dry throat contracted. Mycroft wordlessly offered a cup, and Sherlock drank the cold water down greedily. It hit his stomach like ice, and he winced, gritting his teeth against a sudden wave of nausea. Vividly reminded of throwing up precious rations in the desert, he was relieved when the contents of his stomach stayed down.

“He has been dealt with.” Mycroft’s face took on a sharp edge, eyes flashing before he schooled the expression into careful, distanced attentiveness. Sherlock cocked his head to the side, wincing at a heavy ache in his shoulders.

“He and Moriarty... they came back to the patrol after leaving me?” His eyebrows rose, his bewilderment clear in his hushed tone. “Why? Why would they turn themselves in without a fight?”

Mycroft's eyes flickered to John, lingering as his expression shifted into something pensive. “Moran wanted Captain Watson to know what he did to you.” A scowl marred his falsely serene face. “Apparently, it was all a twisted plot to get back at Watson.”

Turning to study John’s sleeping face, Sherlock's mouth turned down at the corners, his head swimming with the edges of fever. “I know,” he muttered, fingers twitching in John’s direction, hands restless on the bedding. He needed to touch him, to have John in his arms, to breathe his exhales and taste his skin. “Moran said I needed to be ‘dealt with.’” The words slipped from his mouth through gritted teeth. “He said—” Sherlock broke off, shaking his head. “He hurt John before, in the past.” His eyes shifted, pained, to find Mycroft watching him with something close to empathy. “I hope Moran will be disciplined. Moriarty, as well.”

Mycroft nodded, smoothing the tip of a finger over the cold metal of the bed rails. “Both will be dishonourably discharged and remanded to the custody of Belmarsh Prison.” His lips twitched in a humourless smile. “Belmarsh is a Category A prison, so I don't think we need to worry about any leniency for either of them. We just need to take their final statements.”

“Good.” Sherlock stared down at his hands, nodding firmly. “That's... good.”

Mycroft touched light fingers to Sherlock’s shoulder. “I'm relieved to see you awake and coherent, Sherlock,” he said, uncharacteristically exposed. “It was uncertain for a time, but I maintained that you were quite stubborn and would pull through.” His lips twitched, bordering on a smile. “Thank you for proving me correct.”

Looking away, Sherlock failed to suppress a smile of his own. His eyes locked onto John’s face and remained. “How long was I an uncertainty?” he asked, taking stock of the new creases around John's eyes, the pale shade of his skin.

“Four days.” Sherlock's head whipped around at Mycroft’s stoic words, his eyes widening. Mycroft favoured him with a grim look. “As I said, I'm relieved to have you among us once more.”

Sherlock nodded, a gesture Mycroft returned. The brothers fell into a silence that bordered on uncomfortable, and Mycroft eventually excused himself. At the end of the bed, he paused, looking at Sherlock.

“Captain Watson cares deeply for you,” he said in a reluctant voice, sounding strange in the dark. “He is a good man.” A pause. “You would do well to keep him close, Sherlock.”

Tilting his head, he disappeared from view, leaving Sherlock to stew in the dark with a slight frown creasing the skin between his brows. Looking at John again, Sherlock watched the rise and fall of his chest until it lulled him back into sleep.

* * *

He was underwater and drowning. When he broke the surface and gasped desperately for air, sand poured down his throat instead, filling his lungs and choking him.

“Sherlock." The voice drew him upward, sand trickling from the corners of his lips with every panicked sigh. "Shhh, Sherlock. Shhh. It’s okay, I'm here, love. I'm right here.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, and he sucked in a loud breath, panic stinging in his chest. The final dregs of the nightmare faded, leaving his head aching, his throat burning. He searched wildly for the source of the voice, blinking in the dark until John's face swam into focus.

“You’re safe, it’s okay.” A hand smoothed over Sherlock's forehead, a light touch on sunburnt skin, the soothing words repeated in a whisper. John's face was tender and soft, the subtle wrinkles at the corners of his eyes the only sign of his inner stress.

“John,” Sherlock croaked out, and John tipped a cup to his lips, shaking ice chips into Sherlock’s mouth when he opened it with a grateful whimper. His eyes slid shut, a quiet hum of pleasure sounding deep in his throat as the ice melted on his tongue.

“Good?” John asked, tipped the cup again. Sherlock nodded and opened his eyes to see a small smile on John's lips. He swallowed and accepted another mouthful of chips, staring at John's face as if it held the meaning to life in its weathered creases.

He and John looked at one another, and the smile gradually slipped from John’s face. Its absence left him looking haggard, the dark smudges under his eyes more deeply pronounced by the pale skin below.

“God, Sherlock,” he breathed, turning to place the cup down on the chair he'd slept in. “I can’t… I...” Shaking his head, John lifted a trembling hand to his face, covering his eyes. He shook, and Sherlock reached out to catch his wrist, tugging weakly. His strength was still faint, but John let Sherlock pull him down, his hands coming up to brush Sherlock’s shoulders as he pressed his face into Sherlock’s curls, breathing deeply. John's thumbs smoothed fretfully over Sherlock's skin through the papery robe, the motion repetitive and calming.

They remained that way for endless moments, the rhythm of John’s inhales and exhales jagged and uneven. Salty tears soaked into Sherlock’s hair, damp against his skull, and he closed his eyes.

Releasing John’s wrist, he slipped one hand up to cup his cheek, moving the other along to the nape of his neck. When Sherlock tilted his head up, John bent down to close the distance. Eyes still closed, lashes wet with tears, John met him with gentle lips and tender kisses, their mouths ghosting together to spare Sherlock’s cracked skin. John’s tongue traced his bottom lip, and Sherlock winced, smiling an apology against John’s mouth.

“Sorry,” John murmured, drifting his fingers over the curve of Sherlock’s ear as they shared air between their open mouth. “Guess I'll have to be gentle with you for a while, huh?”

Nuzzling his nose into the dip under John’s jaw, Sherlock dropped light kisses on John’s neck. After aching for him for so long, Sherlock couldn't get enough. He pressed his lips to John's throat and breathed him in at the pulse point. “Horribly so,” he replied, tone teasing in his raspy voice.

Catching one of Sherlock’s hands in his, John leaned away, grabbing the cup of ice chips. He offered a mouthful to Sherlock, smoothing a thumb along his bottom lip as Sherlock sucked on the frozen offering. Fingers intertwined, John hooked one foot around the chair, dragging it closer. He sat, frowning as tension flashed over Sherlock's face.

“Pain level?” he asked, shifting forward and rubbing a gentle hand over Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock shook his head, his eyes tightly shut. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock cracked an eye open, mouth turning down at the corners. “Nine,” he replied, shifting and rubbing at his ribs with a groan.

“Let’s up your pain meds, then,” John said, looking around for the chart. Sherlock shook his head, grabbing John’s shoulder when he moved to stand.

“No.” John turned with a frown, and Sherlock stared back with dull eyes. “No painkillers.”

“But,” John began, and Sherlock closed his eyes, shaking his head again.

“Please, John," he rasped in a hoarse plea. "Don’t ask me why.” Gritting his teeth, Sherlock pushed his face against the pillow. John sank back into the chair, letting Sherlock squeeze his hand while the pain ebbed and flowed through his body, burning like supernovas in his leg, ribs, and head.

“Okay, Sherlock,” he murmured, stroking his fingers lightly over Sherlock’s wrist. The feeling of John’s touch was soothing, and Sherlock latched onto it as a blissful distraction. Listening to John’s breathing, he felt his muscles begin to relax. John murmured something reassuring, too soft and far-off to be translated into actual words. Yet, the meaning was clear enough that Sherlock smiled in response.

Sounds fading away, he drifted into sleep with John’s hand warm in his.


	24. the secret that you hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from _Night Sky_ by Churches
> 
> _I'm the night-sky,  
I'm the fire in your eyes  
and I want you,  
now and for all time.  
I'm the cold heart,  
I'm the secret that you hide.  
I'll be listening until you decide_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of drug use and overdose (past).

“Why, Sherlock?” Leaning down, John tangled his fingers carefully in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock had asked him not to pry, but John, seeing his face taut and pale with pain, couldn't help but question the reason behind refusing pain medication. “You could sleep and heal. You don’t have to feel everything.”

Sherlock didn't reply, his face smoothing somewhat as his breathing evened out. Lines of pain lingered around his mouth and on his forehead, and John rubbed at them with fretful fingers. Sherlock's eyes moved beneath his pale eyelids, and John smiled despite the anxiety rising in his stomach.

Sighing, John bent down, drawing a slow line of kisses over Sherlock’s brow. Over his temple, his ear, and along his neck. He pressed his mouth to the dip between Sherlock’s collar bones, before lifting his head to kiss him gently, tenderly, on his peeling, cracked lips. Sherlock sighed a soft, warm exhale against John’s face, and his breathing slowed a little more. It still hitched and caught with discomfort, wheezing and rough, but his face was relaxed. His chest rose and fell, and he slept. John brushed his fingers over the curve of a shoulder, tracing the sweep of muscles and bone.

“I love you,” John murmured. Leaning closer, he pressed his mouth to Sherlock’s ear. “Sherlock, I love you.” He dropped another kiss on the long curve of Sherlock’s neck, breathing him in where his pulse fluttered beneath the red, peeling surface of his skin. "And I'm never letting you out of my sight again." The promise slipped from his lips in a breathless whisper, and John pushed tangled curls away from Sherlock's face to brush a kiss over his brow.

Settling back in the chair next to the bed, he stationed himself to hold vigil with one of Sherlock’s hands gripped in both of his. He stroked his fingers over knuckles, lightly down the ointment and bandages covering some of the worst of Sherlock's sunburns. His fingertip drifted over the lifelines on Sherlock's palm, down to the blue branches of the veins in his wrist, vivid beneath his scarred skin.

Sherlock shifted in the bed, his head turning to the side with a frown on his face. John freed one hand to reach out and press his thumb lightly to the crease between Sherlock's eyebrows. It softened, and John closed his eyes, bending to lean his head against the metal railing of the bed.

Come hell or high water, John would see Sherlock through this.

* * *

The sound of low voices pulled John out of his doze. He blinked, eyes adjusting slowly to bright fluorescent lighting, momentarily puzzled by the unfamiliar noise and smells making up his surroundings. Sitting up, he took in the white-on-white environment of the medical building and rolled the tension out of his stiff shoulders. Fingers working a knot out of his neck, John looked at Sherlock, still asleep in the bed.

Despite his height, his long limbs and sharp features, he managed to appear terribly small. Sherlock's chest rose and fell as his breathing wheezed out, and his sunburnt cheek bled sluggishly into the pillow. The sight made John's heart stutter, and he sucked in a heavy breath before reaching out, finding Sherlock's hand and squeezing with gentle pressure. Sherlock's head turned toward John in his sleep, muttering beneath his breath with frenetic energy in the soft words. Leaning forward, John thought he caught Mycroft's name and a whispered apology before Sherlock went limp, breathing in shallow gasps.

He heard approaching footsteps and looked up as Mike Stamford flicked aside the privacy curtain and slipped inside John and Sherlock's little bubble. John started and jerked his hand away, reluctantly releasing his hold on Sherlock. Mike paused at the sight of John, but his surprised expression faded quickly, replaced with a warm smile.

“Mike. Hi." John cleared his throat and settled his hands into his lap, forcing a self-conscious smile in return. Mike’s eyes followed the movement without comment. John blew out a relieved sigh when Mike grabbed Sherlock's chart and busied himself reading the information.

“Hey, John,” Mike replied, still studying Sherlock's chart. “Didn’t expect visitors this early.” His words were casual, gaze focused on the paperwork in his hands. He was clearly ignoring the flush reddening John’s face, giving John time to clear his throat and school his expression back to something safer.

John rubbed a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, combing it into place with his fingers. “Right. Well, uh. I thought I'd check on Sherlock and see how he was doing.” The lie was weak, and Mike smiled again as he nodded.

"It's fine, John," he said quietly, so soft that John thought he might have imagined it. Before he could reply, Mike looked up from making notes on the chart before returning it to its place, speaking as if nothing had occurred. “Sherlock is in rough shape, but he’s young and stubborn.” He offered John a sympathetic smile, one John responded to with a tightening of his eyes and mouth. “The dehydration and heat stroke did a number, and the fever has been hanging around. All that aside, I’m sure he will recover. It just takes time.” His brow creased, and he tapped a pen to his chin with a thoughtful expression. “The leg is a concern, but I don’t think he’ll lose it.” Glancing up at John, Mike appeared apologetic. “There's a chance his mobility won't be 100% after he’s recovered.”

John's chest tightened at the words, and he sank deeper into the chair. Eyes drifting to Sherlock, he tried to imagine what that might look like. Tried to coincide the Sherlock he knew with one who moved with a limp, one slowed down by his own body. It was nearly impossible, and he swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Right,” John said, still looking at Sherlock. He seemed reduced and diminished in the bed, but his chest continued to rise and fall, giving John a sense of hope. “That’s... good to know.” He cleared his throat and raised his eyes to Mike's familiar face. "Thank you."

Mike offered another small smile and a light squeeze of John’s shoulder. When he turned to leave, John hesitated before wetting his lips.

“Mike...” he paused and frowned, fingers drumming restlessly against his knee as Mike turned back to him with an open, curious expression. John swallowed back a hard lump and sucked in a breath before continuing, steeling himself for the answer, “Do you know why Sherlock is refusing painkillers?”

The comfortable, welcoming look on Mike’s face disappeared, and a tense crease formed between his eyes. He looked away, hands clasped in front of him. His body language spoke of his discomfort.

“John," he began carefully, the words clearly deliberate and painstakingly chosen. John had known Mike long enough to recognize his attempt at respecting John's question while honouring Sherlock's privacy. John couldn't blame him for it, but it still made his hands tense into half-fists. Mike cleared his throat and finished, "I’m really not at liberty to say.” John frowned, eyes narrowed as Mike fell quiet. He watched Mike's lips purse as he seemed to consider something before he added, “I think that is something you should ask Sergeant Holmes.”

Studying Mike's tense face, John forced a tight smile onto his lips, trying to reassure his well-meaning friend. "Yeah, alright," John said, loosening his hands. "I'll do that. Thanks, Mike." Mike visibly relaxed, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.

"No problem, John," Mike replied, taking his leave. John shifted to the edge of his chair and touched his fingertips to the back of Sherlock's hand.

"I love you," he said softly, in case anyone was within earshot. "And I won't lose you, not again. I know you don't want me to ask, but Sherlock..." John's head drooped, forehead brushing Sherlock's knuckles. "I need to know. I need to keep you safe, and if talking to your brother is what it takes to make that happen, then I'm sorry, but I'll do that." He tilted his chin, pressed his lips to Sherlock's fingers. "I love you, and I promise to make everything okay. Whatever you need, Sherlock, it's yours. I'm yours, all of me. I just..." John shook his head and kissed Sherlock's wrist, cherishing the little shiver that worked through Sherlock's body in response. "I hope you can forgive me for this one thing."

* * *

John came upon Mycroft outside the officer's quarters. He was sitting in a folding chair in his camo fatigues, flak jacket open to reveal his dog tags and undershirt. There was a notebook in his lap, a pen in his hand, and he looked up at John's approach. He didn't seem surprised to see him, and his calm expression didn't change when John got right to the point, asking, “Why won’t Sherlock take something for his pain?”

Squinting up at John's face, Mycroft replied, “Good morning, Captain Watson.” His voice was level, his expression flat as he set aside his notebook and crossed his arms over his chest. “It seems you have questions.”

“You bloody well bet I do,” John snapped, dropping to a squat beside Mycroft’s chair. “Sherlock is in pain, and he's refusing any kind of painkiller.” He wrapped his hand around his knee, fingers digging into the thick material. “Almost went into a hysterical fit when I pressed the matter and told me not to ask.”

Mycroft's eyebrows drew together. "And yet, here you are. Asking." His tone was disapproving. John narrowed his eyes and met Mycroft's sharp stare, refusing to look away.

"Yeah," he said, muscles flexing in his neck as his jaw clenched, "I am." His eyes stayed fixed on Mycroft’s face as Mycroft planted his elbows on his thighs and leaned forward. Chin balanced in one palm, he studied John's face with his sharp gaze, eyes squinting half-shut as his lips thinned into a tense, white line. When he spoke, his voice was ice-flow cold.

“I’m not sure it would be right for me to divulge my brother’s secrets when he is refusing to do so himself, Captain Watson.”

John slashed a hand through the air, dismissive. “Cut the bullshit, Mycroft,” he said, anger rising in his chest. “I didn't come to play games. You know what he means to me, what I mean to him.” He stared at Mycroft's face, shoulders straightening. “If this is something that could hurt him, I think I have a right to know.”

To his surprise, Mycroft's face darkened with a sudden flash of anger as his careful composure slipped and shattered, and he rose to his feet. “Oh, you have a _right, _do you?” he sneered, hurling the words at John like weapons. “You may think you have a claim to Sherlock’s past since he appears to have given you his body, Captain Watson, but buggering my brother does _not_ grant you my blessing. Nor does it mean you have any right to his past.”

John sprang to his feet, rocking back on his heels at the venom in Mycroft's words. He trembled with his own anger, stunned by the implications. “E-excuse me?” he stuttered, nearly biting his tongue in his shock. Recovering, John stepped forward and jabbed a finger against Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft was taller than Sherlock by several inches, which put him well above John, but John didn't back down. He ground his finger against the front of Mycroft’s shirt and stood his ground.

“I believe you heard me _quite _clearly, Watson,” Mycroft responded. His voice was cold, and John didn't miss the omission of his title.

Seething, John lifted onto his toes and pushed his face as close to Mycroft's as he could. “Yeah, you’re right. I did hear you." His upper lip curled, and he gripped Mycroft's open jacket with clear aggression. "And I am beginning to understand why Sherlock thinks you're a fucking arsehole. Clearly, he's right.” Fury coiled low in John's stomach, burning through his veins. “You don’t give two shits about him, do you? You have _no idea_ what he needs or wants.”

“And you do?” Mycroft replied incredulously. “You, who would risk his position here by engaging in a sexual relationship with him? A superior officer, bedding a man of a lower rank?” His mouth twisted, eyes flashing. “No, _Captain _Watson, I think you are the one at fault.” He waved his hand to indicate John's figure, his expression sharp with scorn. “You, who can hardly keep your cock in your pants, have no leg to stand on here. What do you think gives you the right?”

John’s hands curled into hard fists at his sides, lips pulling back farther as he snarled. _“What gives me the right?”_ he echoed, speaking in a low, urgent voice that vibrated with the force of his shocked anger. “How about I bloody well _love him. _How about that?”

The words landed between them, and silence fell as John rocked back on his feet, a little stunned by the admission. Sure, he had said the same to Sherlock, but Sherlock had been asleep, and it was one thing to tell the man you love that you did, and quite another to shout it as his older brother in a fit of anger. He released his hold on Mycroft's jacket and dropped his hand back to his side, knowing his face must be flushed.

Mycroft sucked in a loud breath, breaking the silence. When he spoke, his voice was carefully calm, “Do you mean that? What you said, is it true?”

Anger still buzzing through his body, John gritted his reply out through his teeth. “Yes." He cleared his throat and softened his jaw, adding, "Of course, I do.” His hands tensed into fists, a surge of disbelief colouring his words. “After everything we just went through, how can you even ask me that?”

Mycroft pulled in another breath and went on in the same infuriatingly steady voice, “Does Sherlock know?”

Tipping his head to the side, John hesitated. “I... I think so. I hadn’t... before he went missing, we hadn’t said, not explicitly." He fiddled with the hem of his shirt, brow furrowed, his words softening. "But yes, I think he knows.”

Mycroft didn’t answer right away. Instead, he settled back into his chair, steeping his fingers together beneath his chin. Dropping into a squat beside him, John was struck by the similarity of Mycroft to his brother. He'd seen Sherlock in the same position, stretched out across his cot with his hands pressed together beneath his chin in the same way. John's chest ached at the memory, and he wrapped one arm tightly across his stomach. Some of the anger had drained away since his admission, and he watched Mycroft’s face for his reaction. His thoughts were impossible to track, his expression indecipherable.

Mycroft’s fingers moved across his chin and bottom lip before falling away from his face. His blue eyes zeroed in on John’s. “He loves you too, you know.” The statement was straightforward and matter of fact. They struck John like fists, making him John tilt back on his heels, blinking in rapid surprise.

“How... did he tell you?” he asked, shifting onto his haunches to regain his balance. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, mouth dry. Mycroft shook his head and sighed, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair.

“Not in such exact words, no," he admitted, brow furrowed. "But the night I caught you two together...” His eyes stared past John, frowning until his face smoothed out once more. Sighing again, Mycroft seemed to come to a decision. “Sherlock has always been emotional, right from childhood. He hides it from almost everyone. Or tries, he never could hide from the family, though he does a fairly impressive job with anyone else.” His eyes flickered to John, studying his face with a thoughtful twist to his lips. “But I do not think I have ever seen him try to hide from you. From the first day that he arrived here, when you met, he opened to you. Immediately, and without hesitation.” Mycroft shook his head, a contrite cast to his stiff expression. “I admit, I was surprised. And I am very rarely surprised, Captain Watson.”

John nodded, accepting the admission. He looked down with a furrowed brow, reaching out to trace aimless shapes in the sand with a fingertip. “Why me?” he asked, voice soft as he raised his eyes to catch Mycroft’s shrug.

“I can't say,” Mycroft replied with a sigh. “I suppose... the heart wants what the heart wants.” His lips quirked in a wry smile at the cliche. “Though, before meeting you, I would have said Sherlock believed himself to be without a heart. I know he tried very hard to act like he was incapable of love.” Leaning forward, Mycroft's eyes locked with John’s. “In all honesty, when I caught you two, I feared for him. I could see the pull you had on him, and I worried it wasn't the same for you." His lips twisted, gaze sharp as he stared at John. "I admit, I wondered if it wasn’t some kind of power play or abuse of rank. Knowing your, ah... _reputation,"_ John winced at the inflection. Mycroft went on as if he hadn't noticed, concluding, "I was concerned you may drag him into something I couldn't protect him from.”

John winced at the truth in Mycroft’s words. Because he had, with Moran. Indirectly or not, John was the reason Sherlock now lay in a hospital bed with a severely broken leg, and skin cracked open by exposure. When he opened his mouth to express his regrets, Mycroft raised a hand to silence the words rising on John’s lips.

“And for that, Captain Watson, I owe you an apology,” he said, surprising John. Stunned, John blinked and wrapped his arms around his bent knees, watching the emotions flashing over Mycroft's face. “You may believe I don't care for my brother’s well-being, but I assure you that the very opposite is true." Mycroft's jaw tensed, his gaze hard as it raked over John. "Sherlock is one of the few people I care enough to worry over, and I appear to have let my brotherly concern colour my impressions of you.” Mycroft cleared his throat, a reluctantly sheepish expression falling over his tense face. “I'm not a fan of humble pie, Captain Watson, but I owe you my sincerest apology for thinking you anything less than a man of honour.”

Taken-aback, John stared at the ground, brow furrowed as he tried to gather his thoughts. He picked at a loose thread, head filled with questions. “You seem... overprotective of him,” he said slowly. "More so than most would be when their brother is a full-grown adult." He looked up to catch Mycroft's terse nod of grudging agreement.

“Sherlock has a... history,” Mycroft paused, searching for words before he sighed. “A history and a talent for self-destructive behaviour. I told you he tried to hide his heart.” John nodded, settling onto his backside and pushing the heels of his boots into the sand as Mycroft went on, “In reality, he tried to _erase it.” _He sighed again, looking up into the blue sky with darkened eyes. “My brother once referred to himself as a ‘high functioning sociopath.’" His lips quirked in a bemused smile, and he looked back down at John. "Knowing him as you do, I'm sure you realize how ill-fitting such a label is.”

Staring at his boots, scuffed into the reddish sand, John could easily see the contradictions. He recalled Sherlock, warm and melting against his chest at the press of their lips. Sherlock beneath him, his head thrown back, eyes open and vulnerable as he stared up at John. Sherlock, with his face flushed red, demure and almost timid beneath John’s praise.

John nodded and smoothed a hand over his rough beard, thoughtful. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” He raised his head, meeting Mycroft’s hard stare. “You said he has a history?" At Mycroft's nod, he pressed, "Is that why won’t he accept painkillers?”

Settling back in his chair, Mycroft let his breath out in a rush. “To answer that, we need to back up to when Sherlock was younger. A teenager, almost a man.” He locked his fingers together, studying the knuckles with tense eyes as they turned white.

John waited, patient despite the nervous anticipation humming through him, his stomach clenching at Mycroft's tight mouth. When he didn't speak, and the silence drew out, he gently prodded, "Go on." Mycroft did, in a low, empty voice.

“When Sherlock was young, he was a perpetual explosion of energy and... _emotions,” _Mycroft said the last like something offensive, on par with murder or vandalism. “He was a whirlwind of a child. As his elder sibling, it often fell to me to quiet him. Sometimes this was possible. Other times... not so much. He was an exuberant child, a passionately emotional teenager, and a mess of a young man.” Mycroft paused, looking into the distance. His face was contemplative, eyes almost wistful. Refocusing, he continued. “As a child, this exuberance escaped in fits and tantrums. Flights of fancy.” The corners of his lips tugged upward into an unconscious smile. “Sherlock would spend hours pretending to be a pirate. He was intelligent, immensely so. His mind was entirely without limitations or boundaries in what he could dream up." A low, rough chuckle escaped, surprising them both. Mycroft sounded rueful as he added, "I admit that it was endearing. I would watch him run through the tall grass that surrounded our family home, a wooden sword held high, wearing a pirate hat.”

John dug his fingers into the sand and smiled as well, imagining Sherlock as a child. Small and excited, his curls wild, his cheeks chubby and freckled, a bundle of ceaseless energy. The mental image was sweet, and he felt warmth flood through his chest, wishing he could have known him then. Maybe, if they'd met earlier, John could have helped him stay that happy. Looking up, he noted that Mycroft’s own smile had faded, his eyes growing dark. John's smile followed, slipping from his face, sensing the seriousness of Mycroft's next words.

“Unfortunately, as a teenager, Sherlock’s energy drew negative attention from his peers.” Sighing, Mycroft pushed unsteady fingers through his short, reddish hair. “His classmates bullied him because he was a little strange. A little... _different." _Mycroft looked pained, gripping the chair arm tightly._ "_He didn’t see things the way they did. Things that made sense to them didn't make sense to him. He began to... change. To withdraw. Suddenly, the sweet child who only wanted to play at make-believe for hours on end was bitter and distant. Sherlock turned away from me, from our parents. What started out as Sherlock protecting himself from his peers' bullying began to extend to his home life. The emotional, vibrant child became cold.”

Mycroft lapsed into silence, John staring at the ground as he played the words over in his head. After a moment, something clicked, and John cleared his throat.

“It was drugs, wasn’t it?” Mycroft looked at him in surprise, and John shrugged. “You forget, but I was a doctor before I was a soldier. It’s... pretty common, substance use. Intelligent people with social issues and passionate personalities, they often end up feeling ostracized. Othered.” He lifted a hand, shrugging again. “They're smarter than their peers, and it makes it harder to relate to others. People notice, and kids are cruel. So are adults, especially when a child knows more than they do. It's awful, but it happens. All the time." His lips pursed, mouth turning down at the edges. "A lot of them turn to drugs or self-harm as an outlet. Not all, but... enough.” He looked up, watching Mycroft's face. "I'm guessing Sherlock was one of those kids."

Nodding grimly, Mycroft let out a long, loud sigh. “You're spot on, Captain Watson. Everything you said is correct, and Sherlock was a textbook case. After he turned to drugs..." he shook his head, rubbing his thumb restlessly over his left eyebrow. "It was like a landslide. So many times, I found him curled up somewhere, caught on the razor-edge between being out of his mind and overdosing. I made him keep a list of what he took, so I'd know what he needed. After he overdosed the first time, we tried to get him help.” Mycroft's hands flexed, opening and closing, a helpless look in his eyes. His voice trailed off, and John let him lapse into quiet.

"It never gets easier," he said softly, catching Mycroft's curious glance from the corner of his eyes. John pressed a finger into the sand, sifting the grains against his nail. "My sister. She's an alcoholic." He shook his head, the tip of his tongue dipping against his lower lip. "And my dad, though he's gone, now." Meeting Mycroft's eyes, he lifted one shoulder in a helpless shrug. "It'll always be there, between Harry and me, no matter what I do. And it's... well, it's hard to accept it, sometimes." He frowned, gnawing on his lip. "Sometimes, I can't tell if she's even herself anymore, or if it's just the addiction looking back at me. And it's _horrible."_

Mycroft stared at him for a moment as if really seeing him for the first time. After a while, he nodded, a stiff jerk of his head. "It is awful," he agreed quietly before clearing his throat. “With Sherlock, nothing stuck. Not rehab, not interventions, not our mother pleading and crying. I know he felt bad, but we all knew he couldn't help it. I'm sure some part of him wanted to stop, but the drugs had such a hold on him... I thought he might never break free." Mycroft's mouth tensed, and his lips pressed into a hard line in his pale face. "After rehab, he overdosed again. I brought him home, did what I could. It wasn't enough. The third time he overdosed… well.” His words cut out again.

John waited, watching the tendons in Mycroft’s neck stand out against his tanned skin as he finally continued in a rough voice, “The third time, I was almost too late. He spent weeks in the hospital, in a coma. The doctor's said he might never wake. That the oxygen deprivation may have left him braindead.” His hands clasped together until the knuckles turned white, and Mycroft released them slowly. His agitated face smoothed into a composed expression as he turned to face John fully. “After that, I said I wouldn't stand by and let Sherlock self-destruct. Nevermind that it wasn't my choice, nevermind that he was an adult man with the ability to make his own decisions. It was clear he was lost, stuck in this cycle of destruction." Mycroft cleared his throat, eyes hard with resolve. "I encouraged him—perhaps _forced _is a better word—to enlist. I thought military life could provide a level of routine that he was missing. Give him structure.” He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “I should have known Sherlock could find trouble anywhere, even in basic training.”

Mouth turning down at the corners, John asked, “Drugs again?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied stiffly, his fingers flexing as tension vibrated through his arms. "Even in the middle of a base, busy with training and regimental living, he managed to find a hook-up. His commanding officer found Sherlock in the showers with a needle in his arm, half-injected and already high." John winced at the words but didn't interrupt. "It took a lot of smoothing over to keep him from being discharged or arrested. I took care of it, at the risk of my own position. His commanding officer agreed to keep it out of Sherlock's record if I found another place for him."

“So, you brought him here?” John asked, understanding suddenly slotting Sherlock's unknown history into place within his head.

Mycroft nodded, hands folded together in his lap. “So I brought him here. Military life in North Yorkshire wasn't enough to contain his self-destruction. So, I requested Sherlock be deployed, believing I could keep a closer eye on him here. As backwards as that sounds, sending my brother to an active warzone was the only option. Obviously, I did not anticipate you.” He fixed John with a sharp look but went on without further comment on the relationship. “Nor did I ever expect anything like Moran.” Mycroft’s eyes darkened with controlled anger. “I realize Helmand isn't what many would constitute as a ‘safe place,’ but with Sherlock’s penchant for self-destruction, I had little choice."

Picking at a fingernail, John frowned. “Stamford said Sherlock may not regain full use of his leg. That, at the very least, he will have a limp.” Raising his head, he found Mycroft observing him closely. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?” Frustration tinged Mycroft’s answering nod, and John sighed, kicking at the sand with a scowl. “Which means he'll be invalided back to London. Probably with chronic pain and no one to support him.” He looked back at Mycroft and saw his own helplessness reflected on the older man's face. “What then?”

Shaking his head, Mycroft raised and dropped his shoulders in a weak shrug. “That is a question I have been asking myself since Sherlock returned to us. No matter how I wrack my brain, I don't have an answer." He paused before adding, "Or, not one that I can stomach."

Silence fell between them, and John picked through his thoughts, mulling over the new information. It was a minor reassurance, knowing he wasn't the only one agonizing over Sherlock's future. But it was no comfort to realize Mycroft was just as lost as he. When he finally stood, stretching cramped muscles, he saw his own fear mirrored in Mycroft’s eyes.

“You’ll look after him, won’t you, John?” Mycroft asked, using John’s first name and surprising them both.

Looking down at him, John nodded. “Of course,” he replied, back straightening with his conviction, voice turned hoarse by the unexpected trust of the request. “As long as I can, I will.”

Relief flickered over Mycroft’s face, and he nodded before schooling his expression into a mild display once more. "Thank you, John. I know you will do your best.”

* * *

Sherlock was awake when John returned to the medical facility. He looked up from staring at his cast at John's entrance. A smile started to spread over his face, but, with one look at John, Sherlock seemed to pluck the truth from his head, and the smile faded. Eyes darkening, Sherlock's mouth when tight, and he turned his head away.

“So,” he said in a flat voice, tension ticking along the sharp edge of his jaw, "I see you spoke to Mycroft.”

“Yes.” Feeling a pang of guilt, John stepped forward and wrapped his fingers around the bed's metal rails. He looked down at Sherlock, who avoided his eyes. “I’m sorry, but yeah, I did.” He offered an apologetic smile, trying to catch Sherlock's gaze to no avail. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I was worried, and I—”

“Fine,” Sherlock snapped, his biting tone interrupting John's attempted apology. His eyes dropped to where his hands twisted the sheets into knots. “You have questions.” His lips tightened around the statement, making the skin crack open and bleed sluggishly.

Frowning, John grabbed a tissue from the dispenser on the wall. He hesitated before leaning forward, reaching out with a hand, his eyebrows rising in a silent query. Sherlock sat rigidly, staring straight ahead until his shoulders slumped, and he turned his head toward John. He avoided John's eyes as John dabbed at the fresh blood with a tender expression.

“I only have one question,” John murmured, pressing the tissue carefully to Sherlock’s lip. Sherlock still refused to look at him, gaze pinned on his hands, and John sighed, “Sherlock?” and bit back a laugh at Sherlock's blatant stubbornness.

“Ask your question,” Sherlock snapped, closing his eyes as he jerked his head away. Blood trickled down his lip, and he wiped it away with shaking fingers, making it worse.

Gripping Sherlock’s chin with a firm hand, John turned Sherlock back toward him. Sherlock kept his eyes closed, his face tense with anger as John cleaned away the blood. John’s mind snapped back to Mycroft’s words, of his brother’s capacity for emotion, and his hand softened, fingertips stroking along Sherlock’s jaw, coaxing him closer.

“I just wanted to ask,” John murmured, gaze darting over Sherlock's stony expression. “If you could forgive me. And..." he paused, wetting his lips, his voice emerging as a croak when he added, "And if you knew how much I love you.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, widened, and fixed on John’s. He seemed lost, dumbfounded and stunned, mouth popping open. John couldn’t resist the soft laugh that escaped his chest, love rising within him and threatening to spill over in a rush of promises and declarations. He swallowed them back, not wanting to overwhelm Sherlock when he still seemed so fragile. Instead, he bent and coaxed Sherlock's face closer, looking into his eyes.

“I love you," he said firmly, smiling as Sherlock's lashes fluttered in a series of startled blinks.

"You..." Sherlock faltered, lips pressing together before parting around a stunned breath. "You...?"

John nodded, sliding his hand gently around Sherlock's nape. "Yeah, I do, Sherlock. I love you." At Sherlock's constant blinking, John giggled and whispered, "Come here, you beautiful man.” He stooped lower, slipping his arms carefully around Sherlock and holding him to his chest as best he could with the cast and the IV lines. He felt Sherlock face press into his neck, his breathing too fast and unsteady. John waited, willing to be patient, smoothing the flat of his hand over Sherlock's upper back. When Sherlock finally spoke, his words were muffled by John’s skin.

“Me too," he murmured, lips brushing against John's throat with the movement of his mouth. "I love you too, John.”

“I know,” John breathed, stroking his fingers through tangled curls. His lips curled into a smile, chest filled with a surge of warmth at Sherlock's admission. “I know you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, look, fluff! I originally wrote this chapter on my phone while on Christmas holidays. Feels good to finally be able to add it to the story.


	25. make me feel free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from _Dark Places_ by Beck
> 
> _come and see me  
do you need me?  
hiding deeply  
in the feeling  
been so lonely,  
so unholy,  
make me feel free.  
come and let me down slow_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic description of injury. Mention of drug use and overdose (past).

Recovery was tedious and boring to the extreme. Days spent laid up in a hospital bed, staring up at the concrete ceiling, made Sherlock think his brain might rot. His body ached with both pain and the burning need to do _something_, anything. He'd settle for anything, anything at all, so long as it involved leaving the damn bed. Just to be up and able to travel under his own power and volition sounded like the best thing possible.

The leg held him back. Immobilized by the cast, weakened and blazing with constant pain, it became the bane of Sherlock's existence. When he woke, it was to immediate, searing agony, creeping into his consciousness as sleep fell away. When he drifted off at night, it was a battle, his mind repeatedly dragged back to awareness by the throbbing ache in the fractured bone.

John helped. On days when Sherlock wanted to claw his own skin off, go mad with the inane crawl of healing, John soothed him. He talked to him, provided necessary distraction when the pain made him want to scream. Even with all the talking, they avoided the topic of what would happen when Sherlock was mobile again. They skirted admitting what they both knew: that Sherlock would be discharged, sent to London alone.

There was enough weight in the room without voicing those words. So they didn't give voice to their fears, not when Sherlock was still struggling to keep himself together from day-to-day.

John visited whenever he could. Aside from leaving for food, showers and assignments, he spent all his free time at Sherlock's bedside. Most nights, he fell asleep in a chair when his exhaustion got the best of him. To Sherlock's shock, it was allowed. He suspected Mycroft's influence, choosing not to question the freedom lest it be revoked. Without John, his recovery would be closer to hellish, and Sherlock didn't think he could suffer through the pain alone.

The base was buzzing with speculation. Rumours of Moran's treason spread like wildfire, the reason for Sherlock's extended medical stay brought to light by his and Moriarty's dishonourable discharges. Suddenly, Sherlock, who had flown under the radar as a lowly Lancer, was the talk of the camp. He caught people glancing at him when they passed his space, looking at him differently, some with suspicion, others with understanding. It got so John would stalk stiff-legged around the bed to shut the privacy curtain in people's faces with a scowl.

Even worse than the speculation were those that gossiped about John's unwavering presence at Sherlock's bedside. Some talk was blatantly homophobic, making John's jaw clench, and Sherlock want to crawl away and hide.

But John never wavered. Sherlock was his priority whenever he wasn't engaged in duty, and Sherlock put on a brave face for him. No matter the nightmares, the constant, mind-numbing pain, he pasted a smile on his face when John sat next to his bed and made sure John knew he had become his world. It didn't feel much like Sherlock had more than that to care for with a leg like his.

With John being supportive and strained, the recovery cycle continued, while Sherlock put on a brilliant façade. He thought he might have convinced John that everything was okay, that he would be okay.

Then came the infection. Mike had warned of the possibility of a bone infection. He had believed they were nearly past the risk window. Sherlock’s body made sure to prove him wrong. It sank deep, ripping teeth into Sherlock's leg, seeping from the skin into the bone.

Six days after John admitted his love, Sherlock woke up feverish and damp, curls plastered to his skull by sweat. His skin burned, temperature reading at 101.2 degrees in the early hours of 4am. A machine to his left blared an alarm, and doctors descended, taking his temperature and working to cool his body. By the time John arrived at 10am, fresh from running his morning laps and a shower, Sherlock was hovering between 104-105 degrees. He shook and shivered under a thin sheet as sweat ran down his flushed face.

John took one look at him and rushed forward, alarm erasing his welcoming smile. "Jesus, Sherlock." Coming up to the edge of the bed, John stared down at him, his teeth pressing anxiously into his bottom lip. "Baby, I'm so sorry," he murmured, smoothing tangled curls back from Sherlock's flushed face. A bowl of water and a cloth sat next to the bed, and John gently washed Sherlock's face. He swept the damp flannel over Sherlock's cheeks and brow, water dribbling down the side of his neck. Sherlock looked up at him with glassy eyes, his vision hazy. The room seemed too bright, everything off-colour and jagged.

"John," he breathed, his voice hoarse and strained. He tried to reach for him, but his hand only twitched, body too weakened by the infection to respond correctly.

"I'm here." John leaned his elbows on the bed railing, stroking his thumb over Sherlock's fever-dry lips. "You have a fever, love. I'm going to get you some ice chips, and I'll be right back." Before leaving, John touched a light hand to Sherlock's shoulder. He returned quickly, sliding the curtain shut and dimming the light as much as possible. Hooking the chair close to the bed, he tipped ice into Sherlock's mouth, waiting patiently as Sherlock let the chips melt on his tongue, his throat too raw to swallow. John murmured comforting words to him that Sherlock tried to catch and couldn't make sense of. He was still trying when the fever rose another degree, and Sherlock lapsed into delirium.

The next day and a half passed in a daze, punctuated by fitful sleep and terrifying hallucinations. Too sick to know it was all in his head, Sherlock whimpered and thrashed as Moran paced the room, grinning and laughing. People from his youth perched around the bed, calling out to him, branding him a freak, a weirdo, a monster. John's reassurances fell on death ears, muted by the wild imaginings of Sherlock's overheated brain.

At one point, he thought it was seven years ago, and he was coming out of an overdose. When he saw Mycroft standing over him, Sherlock babbled apologies and pleas, unaware if Mycroft was a figment or real. He promised to stop using drugs if his brother would just _please stop letting Sherlock burn alive._

He flipped through various dark moments from his past and hallucinated others until not even John could calm him. The faces of those around the bed melted into black holes, endless, empty pits that caved in on themselves until Sherlock screamed and screamed. They gave him a tranquillizer to make it stop, and he lost the remaining time to a dead sleep.

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes, winced at the muted light, and closed them until he could try again. He turned his head, expecting to find John, and saw Mycroft instead. His brother was sitting in John's usual chair, scribbling quick shorthand across a yellow legal pad in his lap. At the shift in Sherlock's breathing, he looked up, studying his face.

"Do you know where you are?" Mycroft asked, setting aside the legal pad and leaning forward. Sherlock licked his dry lips and nodded. He tried to speak, but his throat tightened, and he made a soft, choking sound. Wordlessly, Mycroft handed him a cup of water, and Sherlock sipped at it, looking down at his leg, which was no longer elevated.

The cast had been removed, replaced with wicked metal pins. The skin was distended and swollen over the break, fading bruises marring the area above and below the gauze wrapped loosely around the fracture. Even with the dressing, the swelling was evident, Sherlock's leg appearing bloated. He felt sick and weak, just looking at it. His skin was clammy with dried sweat.

"Sherlock." He turned back to his brother, blinking against the bright light. Mycroft stood and flipped a switch, plunging the space into semi-dark, and Sherlock let out a grateful sigh. "Photosensitivity," Mycroft noted, sitting down again. "To be expected after such a high fever. You should rest."

"Where's John?" Sherlock's voice was a low, rasping whisper.

"I sent him to get some sleep," Mycroft explained, picking up his legal pad. "He was dead on his feet. You should sleep, as well." Mycroft pinned him with a hard stare until Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes. His mind hummed with an unsteady rhythm, fed by the aching pain in his leg, and he clenched his jaw tight until darkness swept over him.

* * *

When he next opened his eyes, John was back at his side, stroking light fingers along his cheek. A relieved smile changed his face when Sherlock looked up at him.

"Hey, you," he murmured, brushing a lock of sweaty hair back behind Sherlock's ear. Sherlock tilted his face into the touch, some of the tension easing at the brush of John's skin. "How are you feeling?"

"As if someone wrung me out like a wet rag," Sherlock replied, his body leaden. He tried to shift and sit up, but his leg was so much dead weight, and any and all strength seeped out of him, leaving him limp against the mattress. John gave him a weak smile, squeezing his arm with a gentle hand, and helped him sit up, propping the pillows at his back.

"At least the fever is gone." Settling in the chair, John pulled it close to the edge of the bed. He caught Sherlock's hand and traced the creases of his palm. It was gentle, a wonderful contrast to his pain, and Sherlock sighed, sinking back against his pillows. "I can't stay long," John said, his reluctance evident in his tone of voice. "I'm not supposed to be here at all, but Mycroft said you were awake, and I wanted to see you." He dragged the back of his knuckles down the inside of Sherlock's forearm, smiling when goosebumps rose at the touch, and Sherlock shivered delicately. Lifting his gaze, John found Sherlock looking at him with half-closed eyes, and he smiled again. "Missed you."

Sherlock made a soft noise of agreement, focusing on John's touch as his eyes closed, and he linked their fingers together with a hum. He didn't mean to, but with John's fingers light and warm on his skin, he slipped back into sleep.

* * *

After a few days, the swelling in Sherlock's leg began to reduce, the limb finally looking more like a leg and less like a piece of brutalized meat. He was still disgustingly weak, but every bit of improvement was a victory. Just graduating back to solid food, mostly thick soups, felt like a triumph. John's enthusiastic praise when Sherlock managed to finish an entire bowl of split-pea made it even better. Sherlock pasted a wide smile onto his face for John’s benefit in response. If keeping John happy meant swallowing back his own misgivings, then Sherlock would do so.

A week after the fever broke, the medics presented him with an old, clanking wheelchair. Sherlock glared, balked, and refused to look at it. The gift resulted in a massive sulk, and it was only John's slow, gentle coaxing that eventually got him into the chair. He sat in the seat with evident reluctance, his leg stabilized and jutting out in front of him. Sherlock glowered and curled into himself, frustrated with the fuss and attention of his doctors. But when John smiled, ruffled his curls and wheeled him outside, Sherlock's dark mood dissipated almost instantly.

Sitting in the sun with John at his side, the hot desert breeze blowing against his face, Sherlock felt the frustration ease in his chest and didn't resist the urge to smile up at John when it arose. John's answering smile almost made him forget about the wheelchair and his own limitations.

Hands brushing, they sat and watched the bustle of the base with relaxed faces, and Sherlock felt a surge of gratitude for John's steady presence at his side.


	26. a leap of love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from _Leap of Love_ by Tiger Lou
> 
> _you keep hoping for miracles  
from this hole of a man,  
so you fail to notice the subtleties_
> 
> _how can you ever understand,  
that every little step is a leap of love  
from this hole of a man,  
and any leap should be enough_

The wind blew sand and grit into John’s face as he gazed out over the desert. Rifle set against his shoulder, he crept forward, glancing over his shoulder at the men behind him. Khatri lifted a hand, fist closed and head cocked to the side. John nodded, looking past him to Walker and Haider, the younger men watching his face carefully. Stretching out his arm, John bent his hand at the wrist, twitching two fingers together in a downward motion. _Move out._

He broke cover, running at a squat and keeping low to the ground as the three men followed, their footsteps hushing over the sand, rifles lifted and at the ready.

The rattle of gunfire split the air. John dropped to a knee, jerking to the side as the others sprinted past, finding cover behind a low wall. Lifting his rifle, John pulled the trigger. The gun spat out noise and sound, and nothing more, in the direction of the reports.

When he shifted, moving to rise to his feet, something cold pressed to the back of his skull. John stiffened, his eyebrows dropping into a scowl. "Fuck."

“Bang, you’re dead, Watson,” a voice said smugly, tinged with easy cheerfulness. Rolling his eyes, John looked back at the man standing over him, the gun in his hand pointed at John’s sour expression.

“Bugger off, David,” he rejoined, still accepting the man’s hand when it was offered. Archer pulled him to his feet, his teeth bared in a wide grin.

“Well, well, Watson. Even slowed down by my leg, I managed to take you down.”

John sighed and tilted his face up to the sky. “A bullet to the thigh sure didn’t hurt your arrogance, did it?” Magnussen’s second-in-command laughed, brushing sand off his knees with a smirk.

“Keep it up, Watson, and I’ll just make sure to get you faster next time.”

John snorted, but his grin remained. "You're on." The ribbing was all in good fun, and it felt good to stretch out again, gun in hand, even if it was only a training scenario. “Alright, we're done here,” John called, waving at the other men. He watched them emerge from behind half-fallen buildings before he turned and gripped David's arm. “It’s good to see you back at it, even if you keep shooting me in the back.”

David grinned, high-fiving Haider when he approached with his arm raised. “Good to be back," he said, dodging Khatri's tackle. "Was getting pretty sick of lying in that bed.” The five of them walked toward a small Jeep, Walker and Haider leading the way. Walker kept nudging Haider until he shoved him back, making the younger man laugh. Archer walked with a slight limp at John's side, and John found himself looking at the altered gait, his face reflective.

Catching his eye, Archer raised an eyebrow. A sympathetic look slipped over his face. “How is he?” he asked, voice pitched low. Just behind them, Khatri’s head tilted, and he walked closer, coming up beside David to peer around at John. Ahead, Haider and Walker were exchanging playful insults, trying to trip one another. Their happy noise-making washed over John, and he looked away from the intense eyes on his face.

“Recovering,” he replied, rubbing at a smudge of dirt on his hand. “Slow and steady, I guess.” His eyes darkened, and the men at his side exchanged a glance over his head.

“And… the leg?” Khatri ventured, shrugging when Archer shot a pointed glare his way. "What?"

Instead of answering, John stared at his feet and shoved his hands into his pockets.

* * *

The ride back to camp was nearly quiet, save for Haider and Walker arguing over who had 'killed' who most often. Archer finally barked at them both to shut it, and they subsided, watching him nervously. Their eyes kept shifting to John, sitting silent and withdrawn in the driver’s seat. He kept his focus on the terrain, jaw clenched.

Guiding the vehicle onto base, John pulled up between a Rover and a larger off-road vehicle, cutting the engine and jumping out without looking back. Before he could escape, a hand came down on his shoulder, and he turned to find Khatri scrutinizing his face with knowing eyes.

“It’ll work out, Captain,” he said, and John’s mouth twitched, caught between an empty smile and a grimace. "He's strong, your Sherlock." John tensed at the words, but Khatri just gripped his shoulder tighter. "You've got each other, and that's a hell of a lot more than most of us have." Staring at the man in front of him, John considered the words for a long moment. Unperturbed, Khatri looked back at him, his dark eyes clear and open. Finally, John nodded and shrugged out from under the hand on his shoulder. Khatri let him go, and John could feel those eyes on his back as he walked away.

He stopped by his quarters to toss his helmet and rifle onto his bunk, tearing off his armour before he paused, smoothing a hand over the rough blanket. His mouth a tight, tense line, he stripped out of the rest of his gear, pulling on a t-shirt and clean fatigues.

Walking back into the sunlight, John was struck by the buzz of activity around the base. After Moran and Moriarty’s treason, they had been shipped back to London for their trials and subsequent sentencing. The hearings were scheduled for next month, and, as far as John was concerned, they could both rot in prison cells until the end of time. He hoped they would. It was the least of what Moran deserved.

Jaw clenched, John walked through the camp, doing his best to ignore the attention directed his way. Word had spread about what had happened, about why Sherlock had been targeted. People now knew about Moran and John, about the feud Sherlock had been indirectly caught up in. And, while no one would outright say so, it was obvious what that meant about John and Sherlock. The scrutiny was terrible, with soldiers John barely knew shooting him strange looks, whispering behind his back. It was a large base, but the Brits deployed in Bastion were a tight bunch, and word carried quickly.

In any other circumstance, John knew he would have been pulled aside by the Commander of the Battery, Major Barrymore, and read the riot act. As it stood, it seemed some slack was being cut, at least until Sherlock was well enough to be invalided home. The leeway was appreciated, while the impending separation drove sharp pain through John’s chest whenever he thought of it.

Part of him wanted Sherlock as far away from Afghanistan as possible, wanted him somewhere safe, where a poorly-timed bullet couldn’t drive the life from his lungs. Another part of him ached at the thought of staying here without Sherlock, carrying out the remainder of his service, their time together limited to John’s leave visits.

Crossing the base, his stomach twisted into knots, and he dug his hands into fists.

Most of his adult life, and for a large part of his later teen years, John had felt out of place. Alone. Drifting. The army had given him something to grasp. Gave him direction, purpose, something to succeed in. John took to military life like he hadn't taken to anything else. He was good at it, a soldier through and through. Adrenaline sang in his blood, and he belonged here.

But the idea of being parted from Sherlock changed that. Where once John had been steadfast in his commitment to the military, now the life he'd built here paled in comparison. Despite knowing Sherlock less than a year, John felt he had known him his entire life. Even in the short time since they’d met, John couldn't imagine life without Sherlock. It was as if Sherlock had seeped into the fabric of John's life, his existence stamped into areas of John’s reality where he couldn't possibly be.

If John closed his eyes and focused, he could almost believe they had known one another a lifetime. Could imagine they had grown up together, that Sherlock had been his first kiss, and John his. That they had spent their teen years maturing into men together. As if they had lived across countless realities, always drawn inexorably together, almost like fate. Destined to find one another.

John shook his head, grinning at his own fanciful thoughts, his feet carrying him toward the medical facility. He turned a corner and paused, taking in the sight.

Stiff-backed in his borrowed wheelchair, Sherlock sat outside the medical building in a pool of harsh sunlight. His face was relaxed, but tension played at the edges of his closed eyes, and John knew him well enough to recognize the downswing of a sulk. Sherlock’s hands rested in his lap, plucking aimlessly at the loose shorts he wore to accommodate his leg. He looked thin and pale under skin that was still disfigured by sunburn and fading blisters.

Staring at him, John thought he was beautiful. Utterly gorgeous and unmistakably _John's. _If ever he needed to know his reason for existing, he only needed to look here, at Sherlock. At the sunlight gleaming red through his curls, and the pale, shifting hues of his lovely eyes.

Sherlock’s head turned at the sound of John’s approach. His eyes opened as his face changed, transformed by a small smile that softened his tight lips and smoothed out the wrinkles on his brow. “John,” he said, his voice as warm as the look in his eyes. John returned the smile, hunkering down across from him.

“Hey,” he replied, reaching out to squeeze Sherlock’s bare ankle with one hand. He ached to do more, to duck and kiss Sherlock until they both struggled to breathe. But they had agreed to keep their affection to a minimum when in the public eye, and John held himself in check.

The restraint was more Sherlock’s idea than John’s, who, at this point, would have happily said ‘fuck it’ to decorum if it meant he could take Sherlock apart with hands and mouth in an honest-to-god bed. But Sherlock had been adamant, maintaining that John still had a career to protect.

Looking at him now, with the sun making his eyes burn silver, John still thought he would have thrown it all away if Sherlock had asked. But he wouldn’t out of respect for John's career, and so John didn’t.

“How was the training exercise?” Sherlock asked, scattering John’s idle thoughts. He was grinning, almost as if he knew the direction of John’s thinking. Knowing him, he probably did. Colour rising in his cheeks, John shrugged, shifting his weight onto his heels.

“It felt good to be out again, even if Archer got the best of me." John sighed, rolling his eyes._ "Again.”_

Sherlock looked sympathetic. “Gun to the back of the head?” John nodded, faking an exasperated expression. Sherlock offered an indulgent smile before his eyes clouded over, and he looked down at his leg with a frown.

“How is it?” John asked, noting the direction of his gaze. Sherlock briefly met John’s eyes before looking away at the horizon, where the sun was beginning its descent.

“Hurts.” Sherlock’s voice was strained, his face stiff with pain. His fingers drifted almost absently over the bulk of the cast. “Stamford said the bone infection is finally gone. We'll just have to wait and see what's next.” He left the unsaid words to hang in the air, enormous in the open space between them.

_Limited mobility. Loss of sensation. Chronic pain and nerve damage. _

Everything was uncertain until more time passed, and they knew for sure what the long-reaching consequences of Moran’s assault would be. Since Sherlock had returned, John constantly feared the incident would drive a wedge between them, pushing him and Sherlock apart. Somehow it never did. If anything, it brought them closer together, their relationship strengthened by mutual commitment.

Throwing caution to the wind, John moved to squat beside Sherlock's wheelchair, reaching out to lace their fingers together. Catching Sherlock’s small, surprised smile from the corner of his eyes, John squeezed his hand and settled back on his haunches.

Together, they watched the sun arc down to earth, the sunset splashing colour through the heavens.

* * *

It was a routine patrol. Perched in the back of a Rover with his rifle across his lap, John watched the Helmand river glittering in the distance. Head feeling full, hungry for action to take his mind off Sherlock's slow recovery, he tagged along with Magnussen’s men for a quick day run. They were covering the road to Sangin, a well-worn track frequented by both bases. It was a denser area for contact, prompting Magnussen to ask John to join their patrol in Bolton's unfilled spot.

Now, rubbing at an itchy spot in his beard, John squinted at the distinctive, green patches of opium fields far toward their left. The view reminded him of Sherlock, and of the argument they'd had earlier about absolutely nothing. Sherlock had been keyed up and frustrated, his pain and restrictions making him irritable. John couldn't blame him, and he felt bad knowing he'd snapped back, but he'd lost his cool.

John closed his eyes, trying to stay grounded in the present moment. He would work off his frustration, burn off some steam and return to Sherlock with renewed patience.

A bullet whistled past his closed eyes, and Magnussen threw the Rover into a swerve, forcing John to grab the roll bar to keep from tipping out of the vehicle. Next to him, Archer tucked low into a kneeling position and looked through binoculars in the direction of the attack.

"We've got company," Magnussen warned, pressing on the gas and launching the Rover forward.

John hunkered down and scanned the desert, eyes narrowed. He caught a faint gleam, the sun reflecting off metal. “There!” he shouted and pointed. Standing over him, operating the mounted gun, Khatri fired off a volley of loud rounds as John, Walker and Haider provided cover.

The sound of automatic reports tore through the desert air, and John stared through the scope of his rifle. His heart raced, though his hands were perfectly steady, body coiled with adrenaline. There was returning fire, and he breathed through a surge of tension. He was lining up another shot when Walker went down at his side with a harsh cry, tipping backward onto the floor. John jerked and ducked, turning with his shoulders rounded as he hunched, checking for the injury. When he didn’t find any blood, Walker waved him away.

“It’s fine," he rasped. "I took it in the armour.” The words came out in a winded gasp as he pointed at the dent, the air no doubt forced from his lungs by the impact. “Hurts like a motherfucker, but I’ll live.”

“Lucky bastard." John held out a hand, and Walker hooked his own through it. Standing with his legs braced, John tilted back to pull Walker to his feet. The other man was halfway upright when fire ripped through John's left shoulder. He froze in shock, frowning as his mind struggled to understand the numbness spreading through his arm. Dimly, he realized he'd been shot, that it was a bullet that had ripped him open and not the sun falling from the sky to burn him alive. Pain gnawed at the edge of John's awareness before shock rushed in to take its place. It felt like ice water filling his veins, and he made a strange, choked noise. Still gripping John's right hand, now back on his feet, Walker stared at him.

“John?” He released John’s hand as Khatri whirled around to look, his attention drawn by Walker's panicked tone. “John! John, can you hear me?”

He tried to answer, but it felt like a hole had been blown clear through him, sucking the life out in rivulets of blood. _Armour-piercing. The bullet had to be armour-piercing. _The realization echoed in John's stunned mind, even as the sound of his racing heart screamed in his ears.

The sun beat down from overhead as John felt the strength drain from his body. He folded forward in slow collapse, going to his knees then onto his front. Blood leaked from his shoulder, seeping red into the sandy hue of his hair, and John could feel his heart fluttering.

Before he faded into the darkness rushing up to engulf him, John realized his last words to Sherlock would forever be an argument about nothing. His lips parted, but he was too weak to speak, and the black pulled him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, sorry, not done with the angst yet.


	27. right where you are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from _Mariners Apartment Complex_ by Lana Del Rey (which I _strongly_ recommend giving a listen to because that song is amazing and gives all the feels)
> 
> _you lose your way,  
just take my hand  
you're lost at sea,  
then I'll command  
your boat to me again_
> 
> _don't look too far,  
right where you are,  
that's where I am.  
I'm your man,  
I'm your man_

The man standing at the end of his bed was tall and muscular, with short, receding dark hair. He cut a sharp figure in his green uniform, his facial hair closely cropped against his sharp jaw. John stared at his mouth with dull eyes, occasional words filtering through a haze of pain and morphine. Words like _honourable discharge _and _invalided_ and _sending you home._

John bit back the urge to scream and tried to nod at the right places as the words washed over him like white noise.

"Did you hear me, Captain Watson?" Major Barrymore's voice cut through the haze, and John struggled to sit up straight, flinching at the pain in his shoulder. He tried to lift his head from the pillow and fell back with a frustrated sigh. Eyes foggy and dim, he looked to the Major's face, feeling.

"Yes, sir."

Barrymore's expression shifted, a slight frown disrupting his carefully blank face. "You were a good soldier, Captain. We are thankful for your bravery, and your service will not be forgotten. Thank you for your sacrifice." Barrymore pushed his boots together with a click, one hand shooting up to his brow in a sharp salute. John raised his right arm, non-dominant and clumsy, and returned the gesture the best he could.

"Thank you, sir."

Barrymore tilted his head in a brief nod before turning on his heel and leaving John to his hell.

_Your service will not be forgotten._ John scoffed. What a joke. As if remembering how _brave _he'd been by being shot would give him back the use of his arm. As if an honourable discharge meant anything more than a one-way ticket back to London.

Rolling onto his right side, groaning at the pain in his shoulder, John closed his eyes, frowning at the noise of the trauma wing. Amid the din of voices, men crying out in pain, and machinery, he made out another sound: the squeak of rusted wheels on concrete.

Sherlock.

Eyes flashing open, John turned his head as Sherlock came into view. His hands were tight around the wheels of his chair, frustration and effort clear on his sweaty face. Still immobilized, his leg stuck straight out in front of him, and his brow furrowed. When he noticed John's eyes on him, he schooled his expression into one of compassion, which only made John glare at him. By the time Sherlock reached the bed, he looked almost sheepish, colour rising high on his cheeks. Skin peeled along the bridge of his nose, the sunburn faded to a red-tinted tan.

"I see you had a visitor," Sherlock said by way of greeting, nodding down the hall. John grunted in response. He grabbed at the pillow under his head with his right hand, anger thrumming through his body.

"Yup, lucky me," he growled, unable to help the anger vibrating through his voice. "Got a visit from the Battery's commander." John punched at the pillow, his eyes narrowed. "He thanked me for my service, said they're sending me back to civilian life." He punctuated the words with another whack, and Sherlock's lips pursed.

"John, self-pity looks really unbecoming on you." He spoke softly, but the words still felt like a slap in the face, and John jerked upright in shock. The movement pulled at his shoulder, and he hissed in pain, glaring at Sherlock.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John snapped before he could recover from his injured surprise. Sherlock blanched and subsided with a distressed look, turning his head away until he could wipe the hurt expression from his face.

"Okay, John." He looked calm and unbothered, but tension ticked through his jaw, and John felt guilt sink deep in his stomach.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he said, shifting toward the side of the bed. "Hey, I'm sorry, Sherlock. Please." John reached out, stretching with a groan until he could brush his fingers along the curve of Sherlock's knee, all he could get of him. "I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean it." He prodded at Sherlock's knee with his arm extended until Sherlock took pity on him and gripped John's hand in both of his.

"Okay, John," he repeated, and John sighed, knowing Sherlock had still taken the words to heart. Squeezing Sherlock's hand, he settled back against the pillows. His body ached with exhaustion, and John let his eyes close, resolving to make it up to him when his brain wasn't so muzzy with morphine and self-pity.

With Sherlock's fingers laced between his, John drifted into sleep.

* * *

When he woke, Sherlock was still there. Hands steepled under his chin, he examined John's face, his pale eyes half-open and contemplative. John blinked at him, his vision taking a moment to focus.

"See anything you like?" he joked weakly, hoping he was forgiven for his snapping. His heart leapt when Sherlock offered a small smile, a rush of affection filling John's chest. The expression wasn't entirely sincere, but the sight of it still made John giddy with love. He slung his arm out over the edge of the bed, wiggling his fingers until Sherlock laced their hands together with a knowing look in his eyes.

John stared at their linked hands. His vision began to swim, and his eyes felt suspiciously wet. "They're sending me home, Sherlock," he whispered, the words rough as they caught in his throat. His voice sounded thick in his own ears, and John coughed, trying to clear the blockage. Sherlock's hand tightened, and he fought to wheel the chair closer one-handed, reaching out to brush a finger over John's cheek.

"They're sending _us_ home," he corrected softly. He stroked along John's jaw, his expression pained as John tilted his head into the touch.

Feeling something sharp rise in his chest, threatening to choke him with bitter words and anger, John bit it back, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "I..." he paused, closing his eyes, unable to look at the raw concern in Sherlock's face. "I never really had something I wanted to call home, not before coming here. I know it's fucked up, I mean, it's a warzone, for Christ's sake, but …there it is." John's eyes flashed open, and he couldn't deny that there were tears now, caught in his lashes and tracking down his face. "I have nothing to go back to, Sherlock. Everything is here. My entire life, it's—" The words broke off, and he pulled in a ragged breath. His shoulder ached, pulsing with agony, and John grit his teeth together, closing his eyes again.

Sherlock was silent. His fingers touched John's cheeks, startling him as he wiped the tears from John's face with unexpected tenderness. When he spoke, it was with obvious attention, his voice pitched low.

"That's not true, John." Sherlock's fingers traced the curve of John's brow, the touch slow and reverent. "You have me, and I will certainly never allow you to have nothing. And…" he paused when John's eyes flashed open, suddenly flustered. Sherlock cleared his throat, eyes shifting away as faint colour rose in his cheeks. "You... ah, you..." Sherlock bit his lip, staring down at their clasped hands. To John's amusement, the blush deepened, darkening the already reddened skin. He looked up again, meeting John's stare with an uncertain expression, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "We can... we will make a new home for you. Together." Sherlock flushed up to the tips of his ears, his neck and chest turning bright red as he shifted in the wheelchair. "That is... if… if you're open to the idea." Mouth closing with a click of teeth, he stared at John with desperation.

John stared back in surprise before bursting into laughter. Sherlock jerked away, looking stunned and aghast, his lips parting in a shocked expression. John shook his head, laughing too hard to speak, and held firmly to Sherlock's hand when he tried to pull it away.

"Sherlock, no, stop it. Get back here, you madman!" John grappled, barely catching Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock looked at him with his lips turned down in a pout, his eyes narrowed. John swallowed back more laughter. "God, Sherlock, stop looking at me like that, I'm not laughing _at _you."

"Well," Sherlock huffed, looking offended. Colour still darkened his face, lingering in his ears and cheeks. "It's still rather rude." His tone turned scolding. "John, you know I find these conversations difficult, and I wish—"

"I know, I know," John interrupted, shifting to the edge of the bed so he could touch his fingers to Sherlock's face. Sherlock tipped his head upward, leaning into the touch, and John cupped his cheek in his palm with a grateful smile. Stroking his fingertips along Sherlock's jaw, John shook his head. "God, Sherlock. How are you so gorgeous? Seriously, you're the most beautiful thing I have ever seen." Sherlock blushed again, and John grinned, feeling awed. "How can you think I _wouldn't _want to make a home with you?" Realization dawned, and he studied Sherlock's uncertain expression, musing, "Wait a minute... have I not tried to lock you down yet? Dammit, if only I had a ring, I'd do it right this second."

Sherlock jolted with shock, and he stared. His eyelids fluttered in a series of rapid blinks, eyebrows rising in an astonished expression. A soft laugh emerged from John's lips before his eyes widened with inspiration.

"Wait, I got it." Shifting higher up on the pillows, John grunted and half-sat up. Sherlock watched him with wary eyes, confused apprehension in his face as John pulled his dog tags out from under his shirt, lifting them over his head. When he held them out, Sherlock stared at the offering with bemusement.

"John?"

"Hold out your hand," John urged, and Sherlock slowly obliged. Lifting a hand, he let John drop the tags into his palm, the chain slithering after to drape over his wrist, hanging down toward the floor. John's hand followed, and their fingers locked together.

A small frown creasing his forehead, Sherlock stared at their hands for a second before raising his eyes to John's face in a silent question.

John grinned at his confusion and tightened his hold, the dog tags digging into his palm. "Sorry that it's not a ring," he said quietly. He released a soft, uncertain sound as Sherlock continued to stare at him. Filled with apprehension, John stroked his index finger over Sherlock's wrist. "Um, the message is the same, though. Hope that's okay." At Sherlock's continued silence, he prompted, "So... will you?"

After a stretch of stillness, Sherlock seemed to come to life with a stuttering breath, pulled in through his nose. Lips parting, he paused, shifted, frowned, and finally seemed to find his voice. "Come now, Captain," he joked weakly, his voice rough. "I think you can do better than that." Taking in John's perplexed expression, he added, "Clear dialogue is _important,_ John." Sherlock's lips curved into a crooked smile, the one that always took John's breath away. His words, light and teasing, wavered with an undercurrent of anticipation that made his voice shake.

Face flushed and eyes slipping closed, John fought back a grin and failed. When his eyes opened again, they were dark and focused. Deep blue and severe in their seriousness.

"Lance Bombardier Sherlock Holmes," John murmured, slipping his hand up Sherlock's arm to cup his face. He smoothed the pad of his thumb over Sherlock's bottom lip, relishing the feeling of the plush, warm skin. "Will you take these ID tags, of one Captain John Watson, as a symbol of my devoted commitment to you?" John ducked his head at Sherlock's intense stare and breathless silence, peering up from beneath pale lashes. "In simpler terms... Sherlock Holmes, you bloody insane, beautiful, _gorgeous _madman, will you marry me?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, but nothing emerged. John waited patiently, a small smile lingering on his lips. When Sherlock did speak, it was with unbelieving skepticism.

"But, we've... we hardly know one another, John." Sherlock tugged at his hair with his free hand, shifting it into stunning disarray with his zealousness. "It hasn't even been a year, and you know my history. Are you sure you—"

"Yep," John interrupted, smiling as the panic in Sherlock's face only increased.

"John," he stressed, tugging at his curls without seeming to realize what he was doing. "You're on a lot of painkillers, and I don't think you're thinking clearly. Are you sure this is what you want?"

"Oi!" John exclaimed, squeezing Sherlock's hand in reproach. "I'm thinking just fine, thanks." He tugged, trying to silence Sherlock's babbling as he drew him closer. "I know what I want, Sherlock. And I want you."

"Me?" Sherlock wheezed, his voice breathless. Something like hope gleamed in his eyes, his tenuously sanguine expression pulling at John's heart.

"Yeah," John said softly, his smile tender. "Yeah, I want you."

Sherlock's face flushed a deep red, his eyes huge. "John, are you sure? What about—"

"Don't care." John's words were firm, his stare level as he held Sherlock's thunderstruck gaze. "Whatever it is, I don't care. Stop arguing with me about it, because, yeah, Sherlock." John grinned, squeezing his hand. "I'm _bloody well sure." _

Sherlock lapsed into silence, staring at him, eyes darting as he studied every inch of John's face. Abruptly, he seized John's hand, struggling up onto his uninjured leg, gritting his teeth and falling halfway onto the bed. The action jostled John's wounded shoulder, but he ignored the jolt of pain in favour of grabbing a handful of Sherlock's curls when their mouths crashed together. The kiss was desperate and hungry, tongues sliding together, Sherlock humming into John's mouth. Through the warmth of their lips and shared breath, John murmured, "Is this you saying yes?"

Soft laughter rumbled in Sherlock's chest, where it pressed against John's, a heady vibration. Nodding enthusiastically, Sherlock scratched his nails through the scruff on John's face, up into his short hair. "Affirmative, Captain," he whispered, lips spreading into a brilliant smile as John rained kisses across his face.

"Mm, good," John hummed. "Not sure what I'd do if you said no." Sherlock looked down at him, awkwardly sprawled across the bed, broken leg rigid behind him.

"What would you do?" he wondered, still looking stunned. John chuckled and reached out to pull his face down, kissing him with slow, aching hunger.

"Ask you again," he whispered, feeling Sherlock's smile against his lips. They kissed again, hard and wanting at first, then tenderly, with shaky breaths and quiet sighs.

When they broke apart, coming up for air, Sherlock shifted to awkwardly straddle John's legs, his cast sticking out behind him. "What happens now?" he asked, uncertainty mixing with elation in his eyes, silvered in the dimmed light. John lifted his right shoulder in a half-shrug, tilting his head to the side.

"I suppose we recover, then we go home," he said, tracing a finger over Sherlock's kiss-swollen lips. "But first," A sly look crept over John's face, making his eyes glint, "I think you should kiss me some more." Very willing, Sherlock surged forward, and John claimed his mouth again, grinning against Sherlock's lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to god, half this fic was spent with characters laying in a hospital bed. if I never write another hospital bed scene, it will be too soon. 
> 
> also, look, more fluff! I promised a happy ending to this fic (via the newly added tags), and I promise it's gonna be a disgusting fluff fest from here on out. I have been drowning in love songs writing the last 3 chapters - you have been warned


	28. you're just like a dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from _Just Like Heaven_ by The Cure
> 
> _you, soft and only,  
you, lost and lonely  
you, strange as angels  
dancing in the deepest oceans  
twisting in the water  
you're just like a dream_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Six weeks later**

Strapped into a stiff harness, the thrum of the transport plane rattled through Sherlock's body. The noise rattled his teeth and grated on his nerves, and he clenched his jaw, trying to filter it out. But the sensation was impossible to ignore, and he stifled a growl behind tight lips.

A light touch on his hand made him look up to find John watching him with a small smile, his warm blue eyes soft. Tethered by the contact between them, Sherlock closed his eyes, lulled into relaxation by the same noise that had nearly driven him mad moments before.

* * *

The rocking of the plane touching down roused him. Blinking, Sherlock looked up to see John standing over him. He was already out of his harness, holding out a pair of wooden crutches. Sherlock let John pull him up, leaning against his firm chest as John fit the crutches under his arms. They dug into his sides, and Sherlock scowled, struggling his way down the drop ramp. With his left leg in a bulky boot cast, the going was slow, but he struggled his way to the tarmac with silent determination. John followed closely behind. His arm was still in a sling, making the pair of them quite a sight as they stepped onto London soil once more.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock drew a deep breath into his lungs. The London air, thick and smoggy, edged with a hint of rain, was a stark contrast to the desert's arid atmosphere. The smell filled him with a sense of homecoming, and he turned to look over his shoulder at John with a broad grin on his face. John grinned back, and the tension eased out from Sherlock's body.

London ran in his veins, as viscous and familiar as his own blood, but John was his real home now.

Sherlock wouldn't have it any other way, he realized, as John came to his side, looping a loose arm around Sherlock's waist. "Mm," he hummed, leaning in to nuzzle at Sherlock's cheek. "Love you with that look. Happiness looks good on you."

_"You_ look good on me," Sherlock quipped, grinning as a light drizzle began to fall. Despite the ache in his leg and the crutches rubbing against his sides, he felt buoyant.

John's arm tightened around him, fingers digging into Sherlock's hip with a breathy groan. "Remind me to show you _how_ good when we get to the bedsit," John growled in Sherlock's ear, his teeth scraping the side of his neck. Sherlock shivered, turning with a playful reply on his lips when a glossy black car pulled up in front of them, interrupting the moment. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as a woman with long brown hair stepped out of the passenger side and walked toward them with her eyes were glued to the phone in her hand as she approached.

"I'm to take you home," she said without bothering to look up from her texting. Sherlock's gaze flickered to John. He found him looking the woman over with a wary expression before he glanced at Sherlock, who shrugged and turned back to the woman.

"And you are?" Sherlock asked, failing to maintain any semblance of manners. London soil or no, his leg ached something fierce. He was getting wet, he was tired, and John's lusty murmur in his ear made him eager to get inside somewhere. Preferably into a room with a bed.

The woman raised her head, looking them over with sharp eyes. "Right, of course," she replied with a false smile. "You don't know yet. Here, this will explain everything." Reaching into her jacket, she held out a small envelope. Sherlock looked to John, letting him take it while Sherlock shifted awkwardly on the crutches. "Now, please. Get into the car. I have more errands to run after this, and none of them involve standing in the rain." The woman gestured to the car, and a man emerged from the driver's side to open the back doors. He began loading their sparse luggage, ignoring John's confused protests.

Left without much in the way of options, they slid into the car. John helped Sherlock with the crutches, one-handed and grimacing, but attentive to Sherlock's struggle. Once they were both inside, the man shut the doors behind them. He slipped behind the wheel, the woman already in the passenger seat.

"I'm Anthea, by the way," she finally introduced. Instead of giving them a chance to reply, she pushed a button in the centre console. A partition of tinted glass slid into place between the front and the back of the car.

John and Sherlock stared at one another, Sherlock's wariness reflected back at him as John lifted his good shoulder in a half-shrug. "Don't look at me," he said, sounding bemused. "I've no idea who they are." He held out the envelope. "Guess you should read this."

Accepting the offering, Sherlock tore the letter open. A single folded slip of paper slid out into his hand. Brow furrowed, he opened it and read the neat, familiar writing.

_Dearest brother,_

_I know we have not always seen eye-to-eye, and for that, I apologize. Please know that I am proud of the man you have become and hope you will accept the engagement gift I have procured for you and Captain Watson._

Scribbled below was an address: _221B Baker Street_.

Frowning, feeling John shift closer to look over his shoulder, Sherlock tilted the letter toward him and read the rest.

_This address is for a flat in central London. I spoke with an old family friend who owns the building and purchased the flat in your names. May it serve you well in the life you build together._

_Sincerely, Mycroft_

Sherlock stared at the words, waiting for John to catch up. There was a startled sputtering sound when he did, and he exclaimed, "He _bought us a flat?"_ Grabbing the letter, John read it over, looking at Sherlock with shock. "Your brother, the one who inferred I was a giant manwhore, _bought us a flat for an engagement gift?"_

Sherlock shrugged, fiddling with the envelope in his hands. "So it would seem."

John settled back in the seat with wide eyes. He was silent for a long moment. Then, sounding giddy and breathless, he sighed, "Well, dammit. Now I _have_ to be nice to him."

An unexpected laugh burst out of Sherlock, catching them both off guard. He fell into a fit of giggles, laughing until his sides hurt and his leg ached. John joined him, his face red with amusement. They finally calmed, and Sherlock slumped in his seat, a grin lingering on his face as he gasped, "Mycroft bought us _a flat_, and you _still _want to kick his ass." He shook his head, another rush of giggles escaping. "Oh, John, you're perfect. Utterly perfect." He gasped and struggled to catch his breath. Before he could recover, John grabbed at his jacket, dragging Sherlock closer and kissing him hard on the mouth.

"God, I love you so much," he breathed against Sherlock's lips, kissing the smile right off his face. "And I _really_ want to shag you senseless in the back of this car, but I'm afraid your brother might take away our very nice engagement gift."

"I'm tempted to risk it," Sherlock murmured, groaning as John sucked at the skin over his throat. He nipped John's lower lip in retaliation, tasting the soft moan he made.

"God, yeah," John panted, reaching between them to cup Sherlock's growing erection through his trousers. "Risk it, I think we should _definitely _risk it."

"I'd rather you didn't." The voice came through the partition: Anthea, clearly unimpressed. They broke apart, grinning, hands linked on the leather seat between them.

* * *

The rain didn't last. London was warm and bright when they pulled up in front of 221 Baker Street. The skies were a vibrant blue that matched John's eyes when he turned to look at Sherlock. The driver opened the doors for them and set their bags on the sidewalk while John helped Sherlock out. Balancing on his crutches, Sherlock swung his leg up onto the sidewalk with a scowl. He schooled the expression away at the sight of John's face, looking up at the building with awe.

"Right above a sandwich shop," John commented, sounding sincerely pleased. "Lovely. That's lovely." Resting a light hand on the small of Sherlock's back, he guided him forward as Sherlock struggled with the crutches. He hated them with a biting passion, but they beat the wheelchair, even if the tops chafed beneath his armpits.

Mounting the curb, they approached the building with expectant faces. The front door was painted black, emblazoned with _221B _in gold above a heavy knocker. The door swung open as they approached, and an older woman stepping out to greet them.

"Oh, hello!" Her voice was warm as she beckoned them inside, waving at the driver to bring the bags through. "You must be Captain Watson and Lance Bombardier Holmes. I'm Martha Hudson, welcome!" Mrs. Hudson gripped their hands in turn, favouring Sherlock with a sympathetic smile as he fumbled with the crutches. She waved the formality aside. "No, no, dear, don't burden yourself. Plenty of time for handshakes and hugs when you're all healed up." She tutted, looking them over. "The sight of you two poor boys." Mrs. Hudson patted John's back as he led Sherlock inside, clicking her tongue over his stabilized arm. "Come in, come in! Let's get you settled."

John grinned, evidently warming to her friendly greeting even as Sherlock narrowed his eyes, feeling overwhelmed. "John and Sherlock are fine, please," John said, glancing to catch Sherlock's nod of agreement.

"Lovely to meet you both," Mrs. Hudson cooed before she paused in her enthusiastic welcome to tap at her bottom lip. "I'm afraid the flat is upstairs. Your brother did say you may have some issue with—"

"That's all right, we've got it," John cut in smoothly as Sherlock's eyes darkened, his face closing off in preparation for a sulk. "We'll meet you up there if you don't mind?" John flashed Mrs. Hudson a winning smile. Her eyes shifted to Sherlock, flickered over his face, and she nodded with understanding.

Sherlock resisted the urge to growl at all the mollycoddling.

"Of course, Capt—John, of course," she replied, catching herself. "I'll see you both in a tick!" She walked up the stairs ahead of them, favouring her hip. Once she was out of view, John turned to Sherlock. Avoiding his eyes, Sherlock stared up the flight of stairs and clenched his jaw.

"Take your time," John murmured, passing a soothing hand down Sherlock's back, unperturbed when Sherlock shot him a glare. Sherlock softened in the face of John's unrelenting support, and he approached the first step with a huff, swinging his leg carefully upward.

It was a slow climb, the rubber tips of the crutches punctuating each agonizing step. John kept close but out of the way of the crutches. Whenever Sherlock faltered, he stopped with him, his hand firm on Sherlock's back, his thumb rubbing gentle circles through his coat. Sherlock's crutch caught on one of the middle steps, and he nearly tripped, John catching him immediately.

"I've got you," he murmured, pressing his lips to Sherlock's jaw. "I'm right here, baby." Sherlock softened into the contact, turning to nuzzle into John's hair and inhale his scent deep into his lungs.

With John's arm around his waist, the crutches carried in one hand, Sherlock let him guide him up the remaining steps. Sherlock's face was damp with sweat when they reached the sitting room, his curls a mess. John kept his palm on the small of his back, guiding him inside as Sherlock fumbled the crutches back under his arms.

"This is quite lovely," John stated, taking in the older-style furniture and the tall bookshelves bordering the gas fireplace. Nothing seemed to match, but rather than make the space feel cluttered, it created a homey feel. Leaning heavily on his right leg, Sherlock's sharp eyes roved over the wallpaper, analyzing and ticking off mental boxes. John grinned at him from near the windows, crossing the room to settle his hand on Sherlock's hip. "What do you think?"

"It's nice," Sherlock replied, looking toward the hallway. "Quite nice." John nodded in agreement, turning to Mrs. Hudson with a smile.

"It's fully furnished," she said, gesturing at the sofa and chairs. "There's a bedroom down the hall, next to the bathroom." She pointed at another set of stairs, just visible through the door. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two."

John flashed Sherlock a look, who turned a sour expression in his direction. "I'm not climbing any more bloody stairs," he snapped, and John swallowed a laugh, turning back to Mrs. Hudson.

"Yeah, the downstairs one is fine. Maybe the other can be a guest room."

"Wonderful!" Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands together, brisk and pleased. Leaning forward, she pointed at the wall, voice dropping. "Mrs. Turner next door has got married ones, by the way." Sherlock huffed, dropping onto the sofa with an eye roll. He sighed his relief as the weight came off his leg. John shot him another fond look.

"Well, good to know," John replied, smiling at Mrs. Hudson. After a brief hesitation, he cleared his throat and added, "You'll have a pair of your own married ones soon enough." He punctuated the statement with a wink, and Sherlock huffed.

"Oh, how lovely, congratulations!" Mrs. Hudson's eyes dropped to his hand, and John chuckled self-consciously.

"No rings yet, but it's on the list." He fished out the chain around his neck, showing her the metal stamped with _Holmes, W. S. S. 4/73 Bravo Sierra Bravo, Camp Bastion,_ followed by a string of ID numbers. "Gotta get creative, out in the desert."

To their surprise, Mrs. Hudson pulled John into a careful hug. "Well, I think it's lovely," she stated, and even Sherlock broke through his gloom to smile at John when she turned to him.

"Quite the young man you've got here, Sherlock," she noted.

"Ah, yes," Sherlock muttered, startled as a flush rose in his cheeks. He felt John's amused gaze as Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly. "He's... very sentimental," he managed, voice hoarse. He saw John roll his eyes and coughed.

"Well, I'll leave you two to get settled, then." Mrs. Hudson favoured them with one final smile before closing the door, leaving the two of them alone.

John turned to where Sherlock sat on the sofa, and Sherlock tilted his head back to peer up at him as John moved closer. There was a strange expression on John's face, one that made Sherlock shift, suddenly uncertain. When John continued to stare at him, Sherlock blinked and cleared his throat again.

"Well…" Biting his lip, he offered a nervous smile, wondering for a terrified moment if John was having second thoughts about their living arrangement. Drawing in a deep breath, gathering his resolve—sentiment be damned—Sherlock said, "Welcome home, John." The words emerged barely above a whisper, an immense amount of faith in his voice, impossible to contain.

John let out a hushed noise, somewhere between a gasp and a groan, and he dropped to his knees between Sherlock's legs. Before Sherlock had time to react to the sudden proximity, John grabbed his face with his right hand and brought their mouths together.

The kiss started rough, deepening until John's tongue moved past his lips, and Sherlock panted soft whines into his mouth. Burying his fingers in John's short hair, Sherlock tried to give as good as he got, the sudden rush of warmth and lust in his body scattering his thoughts. John's hand slipped to the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, and he sucked Sherlock's top lip into his mouth with a heady moan. The kissing gentled gradually until it was no more than the repeated, soft, tender presses of lips, with shared breaths in between.

John leaned back, cupping Sherlock's face in his hand. Sherlock's eyelids fluttered open, and he blinked as John looked up at him with darkened, half-open eyes. "I can't believe I get to have all this," John whispered, voice wavering. "This place, and you…" He shook his head. "Despite every moment spent with you in that desert, I never would have thought—" he broke off, rising on his knees to press their foreheads together. An incredulous grin spread across his face. "I'm so grateful that we're here, that we both made it out alive, and all I can think of is how I want to fuck you on every piece of furniture in this room."

"That's a rather lofty goal, John," Sherlock purred, lifting his chin to press his lips to John's temple. "There's quite a lot of furniture in this room."

Leaning forward, John lipped at the curve of Sherlock's jaw with a growl. "Guess I better get started, then, hadn't I?" He didn't wait for Sherlock's response, just slid his hand down to Sherlock's thighs and inward. His fingers traced the growing hardness in Sherlock's trousers, lingered as Sherlock huffed a sigh, and tugged open the zip.

He had Sherlock out and in his hand before Sherlock could even react, sucking in a strangled gasp as John wasted no time in ducking between Sherlock's legs and taking him in his mouth.

"Oh, god," Sherlock husked, falling back against the sofa. He stared at the ceiling as John's tongue dragged from root to tip, swirling over the slip. Sherlock's hips shifted, whines escaping his lips in a mix of pain and pleasure as the position jostled his leg. John leaned away and grabbed Sherlock around the waist, helping him lay him across the couch with his leg stretched out straight.

"Gonna make you cum," John promised, worming his way between Sherlock's knees, avoiding his injury. He lapped at Sherlock's leaking slit and took him slowly into his mouth, groaning around his length. "You taste so good," he breathed as he pulled back, dropping down until his nose met pubic hair, making Sherlock moan long and low.

John coaxed him to the edge, took him apart with hollowed cheeks and teasing tongue. When Sherlock came, John pressed his right forearm across Sherlock's hips and held him firmly into the sofa, crooning, "Yeah, love, yeah. Look at you, oh, fuck, you're so beautiful, Sherlock, so beautiful."

After John rutted himself to completion in Sherlock's stroking fist, they arranged themselves on the sofa in a boneless sprawl, gasping for air. As endorphins eased the tension from his body, Sherlock turned his face into John's neck. He smelled like rain and London, and sex, and he breathed him in with hungry lungs.

"Love you," John murmured, his voice hazy with dopamine. Sherlock hummed and pressed a kiss to John's throat.

"Love you, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's a goddamn horndog for his madman 😏


	29. fill my lungs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from _Bloom_ by The Paper Kites
> 
> That song is the one playing when John and Sherlock walk down the alter. I would recommend listening to it while reading  
[Bloom](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w4XdnD5c334) \- The Paper Kites
> 
> The song referenced when they're dancing at the end is below, I recommend listening to that one as well
> 
> [Little Wanderer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=io9ivuo4r6Q) \- Death Cab for Cutie
> 
> Note: Neither of these songs was around during the timeline of this fic, but shhhhhhhh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, sorry this took so long to finally post! It's been a very busy week, and this chapter ended up being much longer than I thought it would be. Also, I lied, and there will be one more chapter, just a very short little epilogue (and it will be NSFW).
> 
> Anyways, this chapter is super cheesy and sappy, and kind of silly, so I hope y'all enjoy that after the earlier angst.
> 
> \---
> 
> **Seven months later**

The tie was too tight. John tugged at the silk, trying to be gentle as the urge to rip it off became impossible to ignore. Forcing his hands back to his side, he turned instead to the jacket laid out on the bed. Deep blue with a stormy grey pocket square that matched the _insufferable_ tie, the expensive material was a sharp contrast to the pale bedspread, spangled with light pink flowers.

Swallowing, his throat bobbing against the tie, John lifted the jacket, slipping his arms through the sleeves. He eyed himself critically in the standing mirror with pursed lips. John smoothed the lapels against his chest, doubt flickering over his face. The colour of the suit brought out the darker hues in his eyes, emphasizing their blue shade. He felt rather handsome, even as John thought he could wear the crown jewels and still look dumpy next to Sherlock. Shaking the thought from his head, he tugged restlessly at the tie again.

"If you keep doing that, you'll tear it right off." The voice came from behind him, and John whirled, startled to find Mike leaning against the wall next to the door. In his own critical examination, he hadn't heard him enter. Gritting his teeth, John glared down at the tie in the mirror.

"I hate this bloody thing," John muttered, straightening it with rough hands. "Three years in the desert, wearing armour and combat gear, and I can't even handle a damn tie."

"Don't wear it, then." Mike was grinning, well acquainted with one of John's aggressive strops, knowing it was from nerves rather than any actual anger.

John huffed, smoothing the front of the suit again with nervous hands. "After I forced Sherlock to wear one?" He snorted. "Fat chance, he'll never let me live it down." 

"I'll tell him he can take his off as well." Mike's lips curled in a crooked grin. "I believe he referred to his own tie as 'a dog's collar,' so I'm sure he won't mind."

"Fine," John mumbled, glaring at his reflection.

"Back in a mo'," Mike promised, slipping into the adjoining room.

He left the door half-open, and John caught muffled voices from the adjacent room, followed by Sherlock's deep baritone, exclaiming, _"Thank god,_ he came to his senses."

"Oi!" John called, shouting to be heard from across the room. "Don't make me come in there!"

There was a pause before Sherlock shot back, "Make me, Captain!"

"Don't think I won't," John growled, grinning and already halfway across the room when Mike ducked back through the door and narrowed his eyes.

"Not another step, Captain Watson," he warned, holding up a hand. John caught a flash of dark curls before the door was pulled shut by Mike, preventing him from seeing more of Sherlock.

John bit back a laugh, fighting the urge to push past Mike anyways. Mycroft had insisted on tradition, right down to booking him and Sherlock separate rooms at an on-site inn the night before the wedding. Clearly, he had not considered the risk of adjoining doorways. A couple inches of wood and metal had done little to stop John from sneaking into Sherlock's room at 4am to snog him senseless against the wall. Other actions had followed, most of which occurred with the two of them on their knees.

Thinking it over, John realized that had likely been Mycroft's plan all along, knowing separating them would have led to mutiny. He snorted, loosening the tie with grateful fingers as Mike watched him with a critical eye. He shot John a sharp look when John glanced at the closed door, making John grin sheepishly in response.

"You ready?" Mike asked, grabbing his own jacket off the back of a chair and pulling it on.

"Almost," John replied. Walking to the bed, he opened the top drawer in the bedside table and reached in, pulling out a simple chain. The ID tags clicked together, light refracting off Sherlock's last name and initials. Closing a fist around the disks, John grinned, sighed through his nerves, and looked up to Mike. "Yeah, I'm ready."

* * *

John hovered anxiously at the open double doors, looking outside at the venue. People sat in folded chairs, some chatting, others craning their necks to look in the direction of the lodge. It was a small crowd, but John's chest tightened with a wave of nerves nonetheless. He had no doubt that he wanted to do this; he had never been more certain of anything in his life. Still, the knowledge did little to calm the anxiety roiling in his stomach. In mere minutes, he would be walking between the chairs, taking his place next to Sherlock.

By the end of the day, they would be married, and John's head swam with the sheer amazement he felt in that simple knowledge.

Swallowing hard, John turned to face Mike, who smiled at him. "Ready?" he asked again, and John jerked his head in a clumsy nod. Butterflies fluttered somewhere under his ribcage, and he didn't trust himself to speak. Pushing a hand into his pocket, John wrapped sweaty fingers around Sherlock's ID tags. The hard metal was comforting, and he breathed out a slow sigh.

"Great." Mike clapped him on the back and nodded to the man hovering off to the side, his hands hesitating over the controls for a complicated sound system. He gave a thumbs-up, and music began to drift from the speakers outside, something light and upbeat. A murmur drifted over the small array of guests, conversations dropping to a hush.

Pausing to grip John's shoulder, Mike straightened his jacket and stepped through the doors, walking toward the arch set at the end. John watched him go, biting his lip and trying not to sweat through his expensive suit.

Mycroft emerged from a side door, making a beeline for John. His eyes flickered critically over John, expression softening when he reached John's face. "Deep breath, soldier," he said, smiling down at him. "This is a mission you can't possibly fail." He extended a hand, and John shook it firmly, trying not to grimace when his arm shook.

"Not much of a soldier anymore," John noted, half-joking with a wince. Mycroft nodded, giving John's hand a squeeze.

"Quite right," he replied, eyes glinting in his otherwise impassive face. "I suppose a title change is required..." he smirked, the expression so like Sherlock's that John giggled as Mycroft added, _"Brother-in-law." _

John nodded again, blinking quickly as Mycroft stepped away. Mycroft studied his face once more before turning and stepping through the doors. He walked past the chairs, standing beneath the arch opposite Mike. When he had taken his place, Mrs. Hudson walked up to John from the same side door, smiling at him with watery eyes.

"John, you look perfectly handsome," she cooed, and John looked down at his feet with burning cheeks. He coughed quietly, his voice hoarse when he replied.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." When he looked up again, Mrs. Hudson was still smiling at him, her expression warm. Taking a deep breath, John offered his elbow with a strained laugh, nerves making him tense. "Ready when you are."

Dabbing at her eyes, Mrs. Hudson looped her arm through his. "Roger that, Captain," she replied, and they both giggled, some of John's anxiety easing. They sobered quickly, and John's breath sped up as he turned to the open doors. Squaring his shoulders, he pulled in a shaky breath and stepped forward.

There was a pause and a brief moment of quiet as the music dwindled away. The crowd rose to its feet at a gesture from the officiant, his silvered-hair burning gold in the sunlight. A new song drifted from the speakers, a soft plucking of guitar strings and a melodic male voice.

_In the morning when I wake, and the sun is coming through,_

_Oh, you fill my lungs with sweetness, and you fill my head with you. _

John passed through the doors, Mrs. Hudson keeping pace with him as he walked down the grassy space between the rows of chairs. Every step brought him closer to the arch, and John felt the eyes of those they passed like brands on his skin. He kept his gaze fixed forward, each breath unsteady.

_Shall I write it in a letter? Shall I try to get it down?_

_Oh, you fill my head with pieces of a song I can't get out._

Heart thudding hard in his chest, John focused on not tripping over his feet, Mrs. Hudson patting his arm as they neared the arch. At the final row of chairs, they stopped. Mrs. Hudson slipped her hand free and leaned forward to press a warm kiss on his cheek. John pulled her into a brief hug.

"I am so happy for you," she whispered before they separated. _"Both_ of you." 

John swallowed around the lump in his throat and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. She smiled at him and walked to her seat, and John turned to take his place under the arch, where Mike flashed him a grin. The song played on, filling the warm air, the singer crooning gentle questions over the light music.

_Can I be close to you? Oh-oh-oh-ooh, ooh._

_Can I be close to you? Ooh, ooh. _

Everyone turned to look back to the doors, John following their collective gaze as Sherlock emerged from the lodge with his parents on either side of him. He was resplendent in a black suit, his hair tamed back into a sleek swoop of curls at his nape. One lock hung loose, a dark little swoop on his forehead that John knew Sherlock had failed to tame. It was such a sweet disruption of his otherwise pristine appearance, and John's breath caught in his throat. Eyes pinned to that wayward little curl, he forced himself to exhale, the tightness in his chest easing at the sight of Sherlock.

_Can I take it to a morning where the fields are painted gold?_

_And the trees are filled with memories, of the feelings never told? _

Sherlock and his parents moved toward the altar, Sherlock staring hard at his feet as they neared the first row of chairs. The limp in his step was faint but noticeable if you knew where to look. John knew Sherlock was concentrating on controlling his slight limp, his full lips pulled into a tight grimace. The sight of him was endearing, and John softened with the wash of love that crashed over him.

When Sherlock finally lifted his head, his eyes, made pale by the bright light, locked on John. The intense focus creasing his brow smoothed away, and his steps faltered before a brilliant smile spread over his face, the laugh lines deepening around his mouth. John's vision blurred, and he smiled back, refusing to blink lest he miss a second of Sherlock walking toward him with that bold, dazzling smile on his face. 

The music surged, drifting through the moment as John's heart thudded in his chest. 

_When the evening pulls the sun down, and the day is almost through,_

_Oh, the whole world it is sleeping, but my world is you. _

Sherlock paused just before the arch, each parent taking a moment to wrap him in a hug. They pressed kisses to his cheeks that Sherlock returned, his eyes never leaving John. When they separated, his parents retreating to their chairs, Sherlock strode quickly to his place in front of John. Stopping only to exchange a brief, silent look with Mycroft, Sherlock moved forward to take John's hands with an eagerness that pushed a giddy laugh from John's lips. Sherlock just went on grinning at him with his crooked mouth, his face flushed. John wanted to kiss him senseless, tradition and ceremony be damned.

He found himself leaning in, the amused glimmer in Sherlock's eyes drawing him forward, and only caught himself when Mike cleared his throat and tapped him on the back. 

"Slow down there, gotta do the other bit first," the officiant muttered, his exasperated voice edged with good spirit. John turned his wide grin to Lestrade, squeezing Sherlock's hands in his. 

"Better get on with it, then," he replied, flashing Sherlock a wink. "Not sure how long I can control myself with him looking like that." His eyes slid over Sherlock's lithe form, making his blush deepen.

Lestrade rolled his eyes with a smile. "I'll do my best."

"Oi!" Called a voice in the watching audience. "Get on with it! Some of us got places to be!" 

John and Sherlock both turned, catching sight of David Archer waving at them from the third row, a broad grin on his face. 

"You heard the man," Sherlock drawled, looking back to Lestrade. "Get on with it." Lestrade sighed and rolled his eyes again. 

"God, I'm never officiating another of your weddings again," he muttered, straightening his shoulders as the music cut off.

"That's quite alright," Sherlock replied, turning back to John with a gleam in his eyes. "I only plan on having the one."

* * *

Though not quickly enough for John, the ceremony passed quickly, and he itched to get his hands on Sherlock's bare skin. Tongue-tied by the way Sherlock stared down at him, John almost botched his vows. But he soldiered through, reaching up with shaky hands to slip Sherlock's ID tags over his head before sliding a matte black ring onto his left hand. Sherlock repeated the motions with him, his eyes darting over John's face. He was practically vibrating with energy, and Lestrade barely held his attention when he lifted a hand.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," he said gravely, looking between them. "By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you married." He grinned. "Now, go on, get on with it." He wiggled his fingers at them good-naturedly. John didn't need to be told twice.

Eyes glinting, he grabbed Sherlock, lifting him off his feet and kissing him hard. Sherlock's legs came up instinctively to wrap around his waist, his arms locking around John's neck as he licked past his lips. Ravishing Sherlock's mouth, John ignored the hoots and hollers from their guests, moaning against Sherlock smirk as Lestrade let out a loud sigh, and Mycroft muttered, "Good _lord." _

"Yeah, yeah, get a bloody room, would ya?" Lestrade tugged at John's sleeve, trying to regain his attention. John growled but set Sherlock back down on his feet as his long legs unfolded. He pressed one last kiss to Sherlock's grinning mouth before glancing at Lestrade.

"Don't worry," he said with a sharp smirk. "We have one." He caught Sherlock's hand in his as they finally parted. 

"And thank the literal god in the sky that it's nowhere near ours," Lestrade mumbled, but he looked at Mycroft with a smile, one Mycroft returned. Clearing his throat, Lestrade turned back to the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, raising his voice to be heard. "For the very first time, I'd like to introduce Captain John and Sherlock Watson-Holmes!" 

The crowd surged to their feet as Sherlock looked down at John, a smirk twisting his lips. With their hand still laced together, they walked down the aisle together. The same giddy feeling from earlier rose in John's chest, and he forced himself to walk at a stately pace when all he wanted to do was run. The dog tags nestled against his collarbone were warm on his skin, and he flexed his left hand, feeling the weight of the ring on his finger.

Sherlock's laughter echoed down the hallway as John tugged him into his room, locking the door before crowding Sherlock up against it. They came together with hot, open-mouthed kisses, Sherlock moaning deep in his throat as John's hands moved down his front. John unbuttoned Sherlock's suit jacket with fumbling fingers, pulling the shirt underneath out of his belt to get his hands on Sherlock's skin. He groaned at the skin-on-skin contact, dropping his lips to Sherlock's throat.

"John," Sherlock gasped, tilting his head back as John mouthed over his neck. "John, we still have to do the photos." His protests were a weak, token effort, his knees going weak as John pressed him harder against the door.

"Mm, fuck the photos," John growled, working at Sherlock's fly. "I couldn't care less."

"We're going to—_ah_—look a mess..." Sherlock's voice broke in the middle of the sentence, words trailing off when John's mouth latched onto his collar bone, sucking a bruise to the surface. 

"Don't care," John said, getting Sherlock's belt loose and tossing it over his shoulder. "Always liked you better with sex hair anyway." 

Sherlock's answer was a heavy panting noise when John's hand slipped into his trousers, cupping him through his pants. He began to tug at John's suit, his shaking fingers working the buttons open and pushing it off his shoulders with urgent motions.

A knock on the adjoining door startled them both, and Sherlock whined into John's mouth when John went rigid against him.

"Whoever that is, I'd recommend fucking off," John called, pressing the flat of his hand along the hard flesh in Sherlock's pants, making his breath stutter and his eyes roll back. "Unless you want an eyeful," he added, grinning up at Sherlock as Sherlock panted hard against his ear.

There was a pause, muted voices, and then a sharp, "Fine." Mycroft. "You have exactly forty-seven minutes before we have to leave for photos. I expect you _both _to be dressed and presentable by then."

"Won't need that long," John promised, mouthing over Sherlock's jaw. Mycroft didn't reply, and John didn't care to call after him. He shucked the rest of Sherlock's clothes off, kissing him wherever he could reach, Sherlock rutting desperately against his thigh.

Grabbing at one another, their movements sloppy and uncoordinated, they barely made it to the bed, falling into a tangle of limbs, bruising skin with lips and teeth and tongue. It was a mad fumble, Sherlock's hips bucking up when John worked a finger inside him, his pupils blown wide with lust.

When John finally slipped into him, replacing his fingers with his slicked cock, he growled out a loud, rough moan. Sherlock echoed the noise and bore down, hands scrabbling at the bedsheets as John thrust inside of him with a snap of his hips.

"God, you feel so fucking good," John breathed, bending along Sherlock's arched back to suck at his earlobe. _"Husband,"_ he added, nipping and making Sherlock yelp, the sound dying into a bone-deep groan.

Whining, gasping into his forearm, Sherlock's eyes were shut tight, his face twisted with pleasure. "The feeling is—_fuck_—mutual, _husband."_ The words slipped out between gasps, Sherlock's body rocking with the force of John's thrusts. 

Palms drifting along the sweep of Sherlock's spine, down his waist and between his legs, John took him in hand. His fingers stroked Sherlock's arousal in long, heady movements, spreading precum over his twitching cock. Sherlock made a low keening noise. His balls drew up against the heel of John's hand, and he came with a loud cry, spilling onto the sheets and over John's palm. His body, rigid and shaking with his climax, pushed John over the edge. Hips snapping forward, his orgasm followed on the end of Sherlock's, driving him forward, both of them collapsing to the mattress. Slick with sweat and panting, they lay there for a moment, catching their breath.

"I'm never moving again," John gasped. "Just leave me here to die." He nuzzled into the soft curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck, Sherlock's hair a wild mess. With his flushed skin, swollen lips, and the bite marks rising on his shoulder, he looked wholly debauched. John felt his cock give a half-hearted twitch before softening and slipping out, drawing a little hum from Sherlock's throat. 

"Mycroft may kill us if we don't get dressed," Sherlock mumbled, his body languid as he stretched his arms across the sheets.

"Sounds like a worthy death," John replied, even as he sat up with a low groan. "Quick shower?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow when Sherlock blinked sleepily up at him. Sherlock nodded, and they moved to the bathroom in a sluggish fumble. 

Despite their intentions, the 'quick' shower was more of a heated make-out session. Still, the hot water rinsed most of the mess from their bodies, and John helped Sherlock arrange his damp hair into a passing semblance of neatness afterward.

"Mm, not quite the same," he admitted, trying to tuck a curl behind Sherlock's ear, only for it to spring free and cling to his finger. "But these are our photos, and it's our wedding, so who cares?" Sherlock smirked.

"Not us," he replied, and John kissed his curved lips.

"Exactly."

They managed to make it downstairs in time to appease Mycroft's timeframe. He favoured them both with a sharp, critical glare, eyes narrowing at the ruffled state of their clothing and the visible bruise rising on Sherlock's neck. 

"Cover that up, for Christ's sake," he snapped, slapping a small tube of concealer into Sherlock's hand and rolling his eyes at the both of them when he and John just giggled. Sidling near, Lestrade dropped his voice to a whisper.

"You two have got him in a right mood." John just shrugged, and Lestrade let out an annoyed huff. "Yeah, thanks for that. I get to deal with the fallout later, so you _could_ care a bit." 

"Sorry, can't help you," John said, looping an arm around Sherlock's waist. When Lestrade turned his glare to Sherlock, he received a wide-eyed look of innocence.

"Don't look at me," Sherlock said, aghast. "It's my wedding day!" 

Lestrade sighed and closed his eyes, tilting his head back. "The two of you together is terrifying."

"Thanks!" John exclaimed before he and Sherlock dissolved into giggles. Lestrade just groaned and muttered something about developing an ulcer.

* * *

The wedding photos were a slow agony of endless posing and relocating. John passed the time by seeing how many times he could surreptitiously grab Sherlock's arse without the photographer noticing. It ended up being quite a lot of times, and he lost count once he reached the double digits. Mycroft was not so easily fooled, the smug look on Sherlock's face giving the game away. 

During their photos together, Mycroft dragged John close, his smile false and savage. Head ducked, he hissed, "If the bulk of the photos show you groping my brother's rear, I will actually have to murder you." 

"Like to see you try," John muttered through his teeth, mouth contorted into a wide grin as the photographer called for smiles.

"No one would ever find your body," Mycroft shot back, his voice cheerful and forced, murmuring out of the corner of his lips. They grinned at one another, expressions strained as they posed for the camera, Lestrade and Sherlock watching with exasperated amusement.

"Okay, I think the rest will focus on just the grooms," the photographer called, waving at the group to separate. John and Sherlock paused to say goodbye to the others, accepting hugs and kisses from Sherlock's parents and Mrs. Hudson. 

"See you both back at the lodge," Mrs. Hudson said, patting Sherlock's cheek and squeezing John's arm before the newlyweds trekked after the photographer.

He positioned them on the edge of a stark cliffside with the ocean breaking in the background. The stunning grey-blue waters were an echo of Sherlock's multi-hued eyes, stealing John's captive breath. They stood looking out over the bluff, drawn back to reality when the photographer shouted directions to them over the rising wind.

"All right, John. I want you to place your right hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and your left on his chest. Right, yeah, good! Okay, Sherlock, same idea, but put your left on top of John's hand. Perfect! Now John, look up at him like he's the entire world, and you're in complete awe."

"Easy," John murmured, looking up into Sherlock's keen eyes. "Already do that anyway." Sherlock grinned, his face softening.

The camera clicked, catching the moment in several shots as the photographer shifted angles. With Sherlock staring down at him, John couldn't stop himself from lifting into his toes. He kissed him with closed lips, chaste and warm, the wind tangling through Sherlock's curls. The photographer kept shooting, capturing the spontaneous moment among the staged.

* * *

When Sherlock and John returned to the lodge, they walked into an over-excited, alcohol-lubricated group of guests. Everyone rushed to congratulate them, and John found himself separated from Sherlock as familiar faces and hands—and a few unfamiliar—clapped him on the back and pulled him in for hugs. John smiled and nodded and struggled to remain civil when all he wanted was to find Sherlock.

Eventually, he escaped and made his way back to Sherlock, who grabbed onto his hand with a death grip as they came together. 

"If one more person hugs me, I may scream," Sherlock muttered. His eyes were dark and sullen, and he glared at a young woman walking their way. She halted and turned around abruptly, making John laugh and squeeze Sherlock's hands. 

"Just think," John reminded him, tapping his chin with a finger. "Fourteen hours from now, we'll be on our honeymoon, and we can pretend everyone else is dead." John's voice dropped into a coaxing tone, smiling when Sherlock visibly perked up.

"Perfect," he replied, watching as Mycroft and Greg approached. "Ah, brother, thank you for not murdering John during the photos," he drawled, raising his voice to be heard. "He told me of your little 'chat.'"

"You're most welcome, Sherlock," Mycroft shot back. "Count it as my final wedding gift to you both." His eyes flashed as he turned to John, pulling him into an unexpected, one-armed hug. "Welcome to the family, John," he said in a low voice, and John blinked, startled. Sherlock's head turned, his eyes flickering over them. He didn't comment, but a small smile twitched along his lips, and John knew he'd heard. 

When Mycroft released him, John nodded gruffly, caught off guard by the unexpected sentiment. "Thank you."

Mycroft nodded back before turning to his own husband. "Gregory, I believe you said you had some kind of dance move to show me? Something about a 'stinky leg'?"

Greg rolled his eyes and led Mycroft toward the dance floor, his reply drifting back to them. "It's called the 'Stanky Leg,' and I thought _I_ was the old one in this relationship." 

Shaking his head, John turned back to Sherlock and grinned. "Shall we?" he asked, linking their fingers together and jerking his chin toward the open bar with raised eyebrows. "Hardly seems fair, everyone having fun without us."

"Certainly," Sherlock replied, his eyes twinkling. "I suppose it's only polite that we catch up."

John shot an affectionate look his way. "Exactly what I was thinking."

* * *

The rest of the night passed in a blur of drinks and courses of semi-decent wedding food. John tried to pause and catch his breath as the moments swirled past, struggling to commit the significant to memory. Try as he might, he was swept away by the fervour of the event, tethered to reality only by the touch of Sherlock's hands in his, the press of his warm body and his shy smiles.

At one point, he found himself standing at the bar with Greg, Sherlock—dragged there by his brother-in-law—and Mike. The four of them tapped shot glasses of reddish, spicy alcohol against the counter before downing the liquor. Sherlock made a face and tilted against John's side, kissing him with sticky lips that tasted of cinnamon. He was warm and loose-limbed, melting into John's chest at the slightest brush of their mouths.

In another moment, John swayed in Sherlock's arms, the two of them chest to chest with his head on Sherlock's shoulder, as they revolved in slow circles to a gentle melody. Sherlock's back was warm under his hands, and John could feel the steady beat of his heart under his cheek. A line from the song stood out, and he tightened his arms around Sherlock, drawing him closer.

_You're my wanderer, little wanderer. _

_Won't you wander back to me? _

Sherlock's head tilted down, his face pressing into John's hair, and John could feel the grin on his lips.

_But if you'll be my bluebird returning, then I'll be your evergreen._

_Standing tall on your horizon, guiding you home to me._

Swaying together, caught up in one another, John felt something settle deep in his chest and knew he had finally found his place.


	30. spin sorrow into silk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _you make my heart spin sorrow into silk,  
you make me sleep like a young child with warm milk.  
you held me tighter when I pushed you away.  
you turn my sorrow into silk,  
you turn my sorrow_
> 
> _I'll make your heart spin sorrow into silk,  
I'll stay awake when you can't get to sleep.  
I promised myself if I pushed you away,  
I'd turn your sorrow into silk_
> 
> **Silk** \- Giselle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **One year later**

The sun burned down on him as John rolled into the sand. His muscles cramped as pain blasted through his shoulder, and he convulsed in shock and agony, mouth falling open as he cried out, starbursts flashing in his eyes. 

Sherlock hit the ground to his left, his vibrant eyes opened wide, his stare fixed. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, dripping over his lips and seeping into the sand. John reached for him, but his arm was limp and useless, and his body wouldn't move. He settled for calling out, sobbing, "Sherlock!" 

To his shock, Sherlock's lips moved, and he said, clearly, _John._

John's eyes flew open, his body tensing as he took in the sight of a bedroom filled with the yellow hue of early morning sun. It was nothing like the punishing heat of the desert, and he breathed deeply, waiting for his racing heart to slow. When he turned his head, thick curls tickled his face, poking into his mouth. John huffed and focused on grounding himself, Sherlock's scent filling his lungs.

His back pressed to John's chest, Sherlock’s nose drifting along John's forearm, where it curved under his head. Making quiet, drowsy noises, he shifted onto his back, peeking at John from the corner of one half-open eye. 

"Nightmares?” he asked, his rumbling voice thick with sleep. John nodded and buried his face in Sherlock's hair, listening to the quiet hum Sherlock made in response.

Rolling further to face him, Sherlock slipped a hand up John's side, over his shoulder and to his face, palm curving along John's cheek. He pressed forward, naked body fitting against John's like a remarkable puzzle piece as John opened his arms to make space. Humming contentedly, Sherlock pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses along John's jaw. His body relaxing under the warmth of Sherlock's attention, John felt the tension in his shoulders seep away as heat kindled deep in his stomach. Tilting his head up, he found Sherlock's lips, losing himself in the taste of his mouth and the slow stroke of Sherlock's tongue against his. 

"You want to talk about it?" Sherlock asked against his lips, and John shook his head, nuzzling his nose into Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock pressed closer, his fingertips tracing mindless patterns over John's spine.

John let out a low groan, Sherlock's breath warm on his face, and slipped his hands down Sherlock's sides, gripping his arse with keen fingers. His breath catching, Sherlock shifted his legs, their hips moving in lazy rolls as they rutted against one another with unhurried bliss.

"Mmm," John breathed, nipping gently at Sherlock's throat. "God, you feel good." Sherlock's reply was a soft whimper, and he shifted until their cocks slid together, making them both moan.

Pleasure building between them, they came together with more insistence, John pressing firm, hard kisses to Sherlock's pliant mouth. Wrapping his arms around his waist, John rolled until he was on top, his legs planted on either side of Sherlock's rocking hips. Sucking and licking down Sherlock's neck, John brushed his thumbs over the stiff peaks of Sherlock's nipples, relishing the helpless sounds he made. Hands scrabbling for purchase on John's back and chest, Sherlock's nails painted scratches over his skin. His hips bucked up against John's, drawing another loud moan from them both.

Grinding down with his face buried in Sherlock's neck, John growled. They thrust and rutted together, their movements slicked by perspiration and pre-come.

Seconds before Sherlock came, he tensed, gasped John's name, and spilled over his thighs and John's stomach, John not far behind. He bit down on Sherlock's shoulder as his own climax ripped through him, panting through his growls with his teeth pressing into warm skin.

Spent, boneless, John collapsed and tangled his legs with Sherlock's, kissing sweat from his face and smoothing his fingers through damp curls. Sherlock's head lolled, his chin tilted down as he looked at John from under his lashes, his darkened eyes half-closed.

"Love you," he mumbled, and John pressed a light kiss to the tip of his nose, his lips curling upward in a blissful smile.

"Mm, I love you, too." 

Sunlight spilled over their twined bodies as they lay pressed together in a sweaty, sticky mess. Sherlock's heartbeat was steady and comforting under his cheek, and John let himself slip into a light doze, body lax and loose.

This time, there were no nightmares.

** _Fin._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, that's the end! Thank you so much to everyone who followed along with me as I wrote this, and to anyone who takes the time to read this in the future. You are all wonderful, and I could not have finished this story without your wonderful input and comments.
> 
> This is, to date, my longest completed fan fiction written. At 50,000+ words, it is novel-length! I cannot believe I completed it, and I am hoping to bring that same determination over to _immediate and inglorious,_ which will be my main focus now that this story is complete.
> 
> Thank you, lovely readers! ♥️

**Author's Note:**

> Cover designed by me, images and BBC characters are not mine.


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